


If I Should Fall

by TheWitchsCat



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-03-11 00:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWitchsCat/pseuds/TheWitchsCat
Summary: I've had several requests for Charity/Phinn fics that involve hurt/comfort, so here goes. Our showman is gravely injured and his family and friends must cope and help. Tears and angst ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure exactly how long this will be. We'll see as we go. Enjoy and leave me some words.
> 
> Also, I like "Phinn" with two "n's". Just my personal thing. Totally cool with other people spelling it differently, but I did do it on purpose.

Charity saw him fall.

It was a moment she would carry with her to the grave, like the moment she said yes to Phinn during their spontaneous marriage or when she first held Caroline, and then Helen. Some memories, she’d learned, are more than just recollection. They are burned into a person, branded onto the fabric of who we are.

It was hot in the circus that night. Even after opening every possible door and handing out hundreds of paper fans, Charity could still feel rivulets of perspiration running down the inside of her satin dress. She’d worn her best for tonight, wanting the debut of Phinn’s newest trick to be a blazing success. Over the years, she’d watched him introduce a lion tamer who would slip his head inside the beast’s mouth without flinching, a set of triplets who juggled fire with terrifying flare and finesse, and a tiny woman from South America who could hang by her teeth from a rope. All of them were spectacular, inciting exactly the response Phinn had hoped for - excitement, wonder. On this sweltering night, however, Phinn had been inspired to fly himself.

He’d talked about it for weeks.

“I need a grander entrance, Charity,” he’d said with a light in his eyes she knew too well. “I want to fly like the rest of them.”

With a raised eyebrow, she’d started, “Don’t you think you’re a little--”

“Don’t call me old,” he’d shot back with a wry smile.

So on this night, when the heat lingered like a heavy blanket and the audience buzzed with anticipation, Phinn strapped himself into his newest invention. Based on something he’d seen in the theaters in Europe, he’d found a way to harness himself and fly hands-free on the thinnest of ropes. He had proudly demonstrated to Charity a few days before how it used a system of counterweights, controlled by stagehands, to lift any of the performers from the stage to the top of their tent and back again. She had to admit, it was quite impressive. So, tonight, she had kissed him backstage and joined the girls to watch the debut of his newest trick.

The first entrance went perfectly. To a chorus of awes and applause Phinn descended from the rafters, the bright lamps obscuring the audience’s vision so that he appeared to descend from heaven itself. The show was a raucous success, riding on the excitement of Phinn’s entrance and bookended by a dazzling performance by the acrobats. From the midst of them, Phinn rose in his new invention, arms spread, smiling like a boy who’d realized his greatest dream as the show concluded.

Charity clapped wildly, eyeing the girls beside her. They watched their father ascend, each of them older now. Caroline was on the cusp of adolescence, Helen not far behind. As their father rose higher and higher, they beamed with pride. Charity’s heart was full.

_A million dreams,_ she couldn’t help thinking.

Then it happened. The moment she would remember with harsh clarity for the rest of her life. There was a sharp crack, like the sound of a whip against leather, and Charity’s eyes locked on her husband high above the floor. For a second, he was still. Then, he started to fall. Phinn, who was more agile than most realized, seized the frayed end of the broken rope above him for the briefest moment, barely the length of a heartbeat, and then he lost his grip. Charity’s heart fluttered and her whole chest tightened, so tight she couldn’t breathe, and it was so quiet it felt like the very air had been vacuumed from the cavernous space.

Charity’s eyes never left him. She watched him fall for what felt like eternity. And when he hit the ground with a dull thud, raising a cloud of sawdust around him, her scream felt like it came from outside herself. Then, she was frozen, unable to leave her seat, with her hand held tightly to her chest.

The audience finally reacted, gasping and crying out. Parents took hold of their children and began to escort them away from the scene. Phillip rushed the stage first, followed by several stagehands and Lettie.

When Charity finally came to herself, she clamored down the bleachers to the sawdust floor and out onto the performance arena. She pushed through the small crowd, her terror pushing her forward and keeping her tears at bay.

_Please,_ she begged silently, _please let him be alive._

Pushing past a large man whose name she thought to be Igor, she finally stopped. Phillip was on his knees, trying to find a sign of life. Charity looked over her husband and something in her snapped, like the ropes that had been holding Phinn, and she felt like she was falling with him, unable to catch herself.

He lay perfectly still, his right leg bent at an unnatural angle. He was ashen, with a dark bloodstain forming beneath his head. Phillip was yelling his name now, trying to get a response as he held two fingers to his partner’s neck. But Phinn did not respond.

Charity felt the world spin. The urge to vomit was overwhelming and she reached for something to steady herself. Caroline, who’d grown taller over the past two years, took her mother’s hand. Charity took a deep breath. She refused to faint, like so many frail women out there. If these were her husband’s last moments, she wouldn’t spend them lying on the dirty floor. Then, her heart broke, because that’s where he was.

Someone had fetched the doctor, who shoved people out of the way to get to Phinn. Charity watched, her whole body trembling, as the same man who had come to see Caroline and Helen after their births now checked their father for signs of life. The doctor, whose name was John, finally turned and said, “He’s alive. Barely.”

Charity flashed back two years to another moment. She could still smell the smoke. She remembered the same two men on the ground. And she could still hear Phinn say, “He’s alive. Barely.”

This time, it was Phillip who carried Phinn out of the circus.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not be exactly accurate with the medical practices of roughly 1850, but I tried to be close. Hopefully, it at least feels time-period accurate. Enjoy.

* * *

 

Phillip was certain he didn’t look nearly as heroic carrying P.T. from the circus tent as his mentor had carrying _him_ two years earlier. P.T. was at least six inches taller than him, and Phillip was still a society boy in so many ways, preferring ticket sales or wooing investors as his daytime chores rather than slinging sandbags. He didn’t feel like a hero, even as the remaining patrons gawked and stared. He hadn’t run into a burning building without regard for his own safety. As best he could figure, he’d merely allowed his partner, his _friend_ , to fall from more than thirty feet.

 _I should’ve checked the ropes. I should’ve checked the ropes,_ he told himself over and over, cursing himself for letting P.T. attempt the stunt in the first place.

_Anne flies from the rigging every night._

He shook off that thought. Phillip didn’t need more worry and right now the idea of also finding his wife sprawled on the floor of the circus was more than he could bear.

Outside, the doctor’s carriage was waiting. Henry had followed through on one of his most important responsibilities as backstage manager - call for the doctor at the moment of any injury. Phillip carefully laid his friend across the back seat. Charity climbed in, sliding carefully into the seat so that she could cradle her husband’s head and shoulders in her lap. She held a cloth to the back of his head, but there was still blood everywhere. Blood on her hands. Blood on her blue satin dress. Blood in her pale hair.

Phillip turned and thought he might be sick.

The girls appeared next to him, having followed him from the tent. Helen hiccuped through her crying, her face streaked with tears. Caroline held back her emotions, stoically holding her sister up. Phillip signaled for P.T. and Charity’s carriage, which waited for them outside the tent, per usual. As the doctor’s carriage clattered away toward the hospital, Phillip helped the girls into their seats.

The ride, which lasted several blocks, was painfully silent.

At the hospital, they waited in the cramped and suffocating lobby for what felt like days. Phillip wrung his jacket between his hands, having also pulled his cravat lose. His hat had been left at the circus, forgotten in the chaos. Charity and the girls sat to his right, Helen curled into a ball in her chair, her dress hopelessly rumpled. She sobbed softly. Caroline stared out the murky windows with silent tears staining her face. Charity, however, remained terribly silent. She still hadn’t said anything. Her face was ashen, making the blood stains stand out more on her skin and clothes, but she sat straight, almost rigid, gripping Caroline’s hand.

“Charity,” Phillip started to speak.

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes, and kept her lips tightly sealed.

After more than an hour, the doctor returned. After confirming his name was John, he sat down across from Charity. She stared at him, stone-faced.

“Mrs. Barnum,” he started.

“Charity. Don’t be formal with me. Not now. We know each other too well,” she snipped.

John sighed. “Very well. Charity...your husband…” he glanced at the children.

Phillip thought he heard a crack in her voice as she demanded, “Is he gone?”

Slightly taken aback, John shook his head, his silver hair disheveled from whatever he’d been doing for the past hour. “No,” he stated. “But his condition is grave.”

Charity put one arm around each of her children and said, “Just tell us.”

“He has a fracture to his head, in the back. His right leg is broken in several places, some of them very hard to set. His left leg has a more simple fracture. And he may have another break in his back...in the spine. Unfortunately, we can’t tell exactly where, but I’ve enough years at this to think it’s just above the hips. He’s also bled very severely and, although a lot of doctors think that to be a good thing with illness, I’ve found that not to be the case with injury.”

Charity drew a deep breath. “What are we to do?”

The doctor sighed again. “Unfortunately, what we can do, we have already done. The bones are set the best I can. He’s lucky to have been asleep for all that. I’ve stitched the wounds and treated the bandages with carbolic acid, a new concept I’ve been reading about. It’s supposed to prevent sepsis. Now, we can only wait.”

Charity nodded, and Phillip felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut. He didn’t know a lot about medicine, but he knew enough to realize that if his partner hadn’t come around by now, things were grave indeed.

“Can we see him?” Phillip made his voice work.

John glanced at the children.

Charity looked at Phillip. “Why don’t you have the driver take them home?”

Caroline looked like she might argue, but Charity gave them a look that silenced her. Then she said, “In the morning, girls. You can come back.”

Phillip led both girls outside to where their carriage waited. He helped them both inside and asked the driver to take them home. Not sure what in the world he could possibly say, he simply offered, “Your father is strong. The strongest man I know.”

They nodded, and the carriage pulled away.

Back inside the hospital, Phillip found the lobby empty. Pushing his way through the heavy door that led to the patient rooms, he found the doctor in the hallway. He said, “She’s just through there. Second door on the right. Lucky it’s a slow night. Only one other patient in that ward.”

Phillip tried to smile.

He walked slowly down the hallway, terrified of what he might find. He had never, in all his life, lost someone to such a horrific injury. He was sheltered, and he was feeling it now more than ever. He stopped just inside the door of the ward, which was lit by soft lamps. In the dim light, he saw Charity. She was sitting in a wooden chair by her husband’s bed. P.T. was covered with a blanket, but Phillip could tell his right leg was splinted along the entire length. The nurses had stripped him of the blood spattered clothes and folded them on the table by the bed. His boots were lying at Charity’s feet. P.T.’s head was wrapped in bandages. His eyes were closed, and Phillip could have sworn he was dead. The worst part of the scene, however, was Charity. She held her husband’s right hand tightly in hers, both of their knuckles pressed to her face. In her left hand, clutched to her abdomen, was the red showman’s coat. Charity sobbed openly. Her tears shook her small frame, and Phillip almost couldn’t bear it.

He stepped back out of the room, leaned against the wall, and swallowed hard.

He could still hear her, and she whispered in between sobs, “Phinn. Please, Phinn...I love you…”

When he shook on the deal to join the circus three years ago, Phillip never imagined this. There had been hard times, but P.T. always found a way. Their troubles had mostly been over money, since the fire, and Phillip knew how to throw money at things. He knew how to resolve arguments with a wink and a smile. But this, he had no idea how to fix this. He had no idea how to let himself feel this without breaking. Suddenly, loss greater than he’d ever imagined, a loss only short of losing Anne was upon him, and he was ill-prepared.

_Charity needs you._

It was all he knew for certain. So he took a deep breath and went into the ward.


	3. Chapter 3

When Phillip finally left the hospital ward as dawn broke, he discovered about half the circus was asleep in the lobby of the hospital. The staff seemed less than pleased to have Barnum’s “freaks” sprawled all over their floor and chairs, but they were too polite to kick them to the street. Lettie came too almost immediately, blinking away what must’ve been troubled slumber.

She sat up and asked, “How is he?”

The others began to stir and look to Phillip anxiously.

He said wearily, “It’s not good. I’m not gonna lie to you. He hasn’t come to since the fall. I don’t think he’s moved on his own. Charity...she’s a mess. I think...I mean I wish there was…”

He was so tired and emotionally barren that he couldn’t finish a sentence.

Anne came through the door then, spilling pale, dawn sunlight into the sterile room.  She crossed to Phillip and threw her arms around him, holding fiercely for several moments.

Then she pulled back and said, “I’ve been with the girls. I couldn’t let them stay alone in that big old house with just the servants.”

Phillip shook his head and said, “I lost track of time. I didn’t even realize…”

Anne gently wrapped her hands around his jaw and pressed her cheek to his in a way that could usually calm him in the worst of storms, and said, “It’s okay, love. I know how much you care for him.”

God, he was so grateful for Anne, who loved him in spite of himself. In spite of his impetuous spirit and sometimes fickle emotions. And in spite of having to share him with the circus. Anne understood there are many kinds of love. She loved the trapeze, or anything that let her fly, in a way that she couldn’t put into words. It filled something in her that Phillip could not. And that was okay. In the same way, Phillip loved the wild ride of owning and running a circus, and he loved P.T. Barnum, adored him in a way that was altogether separate from Anne. And she understood.

So, for a few moments, she simply held her husband and he grieved the tragedy that had befallen his friend.

When Phillip pulled back, he kissed Anne on the forehead and said, “We should go home.” Then, to the room, “All of you...get some sleep. Charity finally laid down in the bed next to P.T. and I think she’s out from sheer exhaustion. Anne and I will go home to the girls and bring them back in a bit.”

The albino twins slowly nodded, tears on their pale faces. Tom stared at his feet. Lettie looked ready to argue and the others sniffled and looked lost.

One of the acrobats, a tiny woman, asked, “Do they think he’s going to make it?”

Phillip ran a hand through his hair and said, “I don’t know. They don’t know. His legs are broken. His back is broken. There was a lot of blood. They just don’t know.”

The menagerie of people, most still dressed in their colorful costumes, nodded without true understanding. Phillip could tell that they could not comprehend that P.T. Barnum could be taken down. To them, he was more than human. Lettie had often said there wasn’t anything that could take the light out of P.T. Barnum’s eyes. So to hear of his condition was breaking them. Phillip also realized that, when he’d told them to go home, most of them didn’t know how to do that without their ringmaster. For them, Barnum was their home.

Gently, Phillip said, “As soon as we know anything, I will make sure you all know. Just give me a few hours…”

Tom spoke up, “But what about tonight’s show?”

With a tremor in his voice, Phillip said, “The show must go on.”

Lettie balked. “Without him?”

“It’s what he would want,” Phillip returned, trying to sound convinced.

He took Anne’s hand and led her outside to the waiting carriage.

* * *

Later that morning, Charity woke from a fitful sleep. The nurses had made her lie down after she’d nearly fallen from her chair in exhaustion. Now, she sat up, her eyes wild and her hair askew. She was confused, wondering why her bedroom wasn’t lit by the full morning sun. Then, she saw Phinn and remembered.

He was still asleep. Or deeper than sleep. Charity wasn’t sure what to call it. He was breathing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest. The nurses had removed all of his ringmaster finery and she realized she was using his red coat as a pillow. Attempting to fold it, she left it on the bed where she had slept and crossed the short distance to her husband. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she studied him.

Phinn was not usually still. He was in constant motion, either making things happening or talking about things he planned to make happen. He could charm money out of politicians and socialites. He moved with grace and purpose, never missing a step, like a purebred racehorse, lithe and strong and with perfect rhythm. But he could also throw sandbags with the best of the roustabouts if the circus tent flooded or if the rigging wasn’t holding.

Now, in the quiet ward, Charity tried to memorize him. Her heart ached so badly she could feel it in her throat as she imagined this might be the last way she would see him. The light from the windows was hazy, but Phinn’s features stood out in sharp relief to her. The straight nose, the strong line of his jaw, and the mess of dark brown hair that could go from coiffed to out of control with nothing but the touch of her hands. She ran her fingers through it, finding blood. It didn’t seem new, so she took a deep breath, wondering if no more bleeding was a good sign. He was dressed in a thin, white gown so the doctor could more easily examine him. The blankets were pulled up to his chest, but Charity could make out his shape. She ran her fingers up his right arm, feeling the strength in him. He was more solid than people realized, and tall, so that his feet touched the end of the bed. He often tried to minimize himself at social functions, because a man who was too imposing, to tall and too beautiful, could scare away investors by upstaging them. Men of means were a narcissistic bunch. But Charity appreciated that he’d never let the scotch and the parties soften him.

As she gently ran her hands over his chest, she remembered one afternoon, just after they were married, when they’d taken a train north to the Catskills for a few days. She remembered hiking through the trees, something she hadn’t done since before finishing school, and finding a pristine lake. Phinn had shucked off his clothes, down to nothing, and dove into the water. Her marriage was still so new, she had blushed furiously at seeing her husband naked in the crisp, warm light of dusk.

Her mother’s advice for marital intimacy had been, “Avert your eyes and bend to his will.”

But Phinn would have none of that. He emerged from the water, dripping wet and so beautiful that Charity couldn’t do anything close to averting her eyes. She also couldn’t feel the shame her mother had implied she should feel. Instead, she let Phinn strip off her dress and layers of undergarments and pull her into the water. He taught her to swim, something that was “unnecessary” for a lady, and then he hoisted her from the water, naked as birth, and carried her to the shore. Even now, she could feel every curve and angle of him, all the hard and soft places as they had made love on the shore of the lake, clothes forgotten, and only their picnic quilt between them and the sand. It was one of her most treasured memories, and she’d thrown out all of her mother’s advice that day. She’d never averted his eyes from Phinn. Ever.

Charity fought back tears, wanting to hold onto the happiness in the memory. She wondered if it was wrong, to imagine making love to him when he was in such a state. She couldn’t feel badly, though. She loved him, through and through.

She ran her hands up his neck to his face, brushing her fingers over his chin, which was rough with unshaven stubble. She pressed her palm to his cheek, willing him to open those damned beautiful eyes.

“Please Phinn,” she begged softly. “Please look at me again. Please.”

She broke down again, finding more tears when she’d thought the well was empty. They ran down her cheeks and dripped onto his skin, but he didn’t respond.

* * *

After taking Caroline and Helen to their mother at the hospital, Phillip walked aimlessly for a bit. It was still early, and Anne was asleep at home, finally. She couldn’t perform without sleep, and she was determined to go on that night. Phillip was sure that the newspapers would be out in full force, ready to ask questions and write about the scandal. He wasn’t sure what to say, seeing as he was no investigator. He was afraid the local law enforcement was going to bring in the Board of Trade and try to shut down the circus. Again. Although most of the community had embraced their presence, even if they wouldn’t openly admit it, there were still those who despised Barnum and everything he did. Phillip hoped they would have a measure of compassion today.

After walking for about an hour, he realized he was a block from the circus tent. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his feet to carry him the rest of the way. Pushing aside the main entrance flap, he walked through the cue lines and out into the open expanse of the tent. Standing between the risers, he took in the scent of sawdust and sweat, animals and canvas and rope. Sweeping his eyes over the performance arena, Phillip’s gaze settled on a dark stain on the ground that the sawdust couldn’t hide.

_Blood._

Phillip felt sick again.

Simply to have a purpose, to do _something_ , he went in search of the brooms they used to sweep the ring. Seizing the first one he found, he returned to the site of the bloodstain and tried to sweep it away. He swept furiously, kicking up dust and making no progress.

_Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust._

His thoughts turned morose, and he leaned on the broom. His body ached, and he knew he should try to sleep, to at least rest his body. He would be no good to anyone if he passed out. Walking back toward backstage to return the broom, he glanced at one of the hay bales just beyond the exit. On it, someone had set P.T.’s hat and the cane he usually used to open the show. Phillip had his own, for the nights he performed. P.T. had insisted the younger man have his own ringmaster clothes and accoutrements.

 _I won’t have you trying to fill my shoes. Or my hat,_ P.T. had stated with a smile. _You are your own ringmaster. Own the clothes. Own the role._

At the time, Phillip had laughed. Now, he ached to hear those words again.

Picking up the hat, he carefully turned it over in his hands. It was much like his, but with intricate detailing in the band around the base. This was the last thing P.T. put on before he went out to perform. Every show he was up, he stood at the entrance to the arena and let the lights and the music fill him. He breathed it in. Then he would put on his hat, tip it just so, seize his cane, and take the stage. Phillip had watched him do it hundreds of times. The audience went wild every time. No matter what the critics said about him, the city loved P.T. Barnum. He was magic incarnate, for them, and Phillip could not imagine a world without him. It took his breath and he had to sit down. Setting that hat back on the hale bale next to him, Phillip fought back tears. He wanted to be strong, for everyone, but he was running short on strength.

P.T. was his best friend, the person he admired more than anyone, and Phillip had no idea what to do in a world where this was his circus, alone.

“Are you Phillip Carlyle?” Someone interrupted his thoughts.

Phillip looked up, registered a burly man with a thick beard, and answered, “Yes?”

“Been waiting for you. Name’s Murray. Peter Murray. From the Board of Trade.”

 _Shit._ It was Phillip’s only thought.

“We’ve been looking at your rigging. We’ll be taking a few things with us, including the harness the hospital turned over and some of the ropes and such,” Murray stated.

Phillip sighed. Government sure could move quickly when it wanted to. “I understand,” he said tightly.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Murray threw back as he headed back out into the arena.

“Are we good to go on tonight?” Phillip asked carefully.

Murray looked him over again, and then slowly nodded before heading back toward the stage.

Phillip once again felt the weight of not having slept. Shuffling further backstage, he went into the tiny office space where he and P.T. balanced books and tossed around new ideas. He glanced around at two years of knick knacks and papers and memories. Then he shook off his vest and shoes, and collapsed onto the makeshift cot made of old quilts to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next four days, Charity kept a constant vigil by her husband’s bed. She slept in short spurts in the bed next to Finn, grateful that even with the addition of other patients, the nurses allowed her to occupy it. She went home once to change into her oldest dress. By the fourth day, her hair was lifeless, unwashed, and pinned haphazardly on top of her head.

The girls had come each day, escorted by Anne, who had volunteered to move into the Barnum’s house temporarily to take care of the girls. For the past two years, they had lived just a few blocks from the circus in a newly built walk-up. It was a third the size of their country home, but Charity felt much more comfortable in it. She also felt that Phinn was more at home living in the city, where he was closer to the action of the growing island of Manhattan.

The first morning, when the girls had come to see their father, Caroline had grown instantly pale at the site of him, lying prone and unresponsive. At the age of thirteen, however, she still refused to break down. Charity watched as her daughter silently took her father’s hand and held on tight, much like she’d done when she was a little girl. She stood there for a long time, and Charity wondered if she was praying. Helen, however, was still young enough not to feel the pressure to be so strong. She also tended to keep her heart on her sleeve. So Helen cried fat tears into the blankets that covered her father. And Charity watched, her heart breaking again, but in a different way.

Now, by her calculations, it was Wednesday. Phinn’s last show was Saturday night. It had been four days without any sign of him coming out of the deep sleep in which he lay. Charity was ever grateful for the nurses who came to help her care for her husband. In many ways, she felt like she was caring for an infant again. The only thing Phinn could do for himself was breathe, and she tried to be grateful just for that.

As she sat, staring out the cloudy glass at an equally cloudy sky, Margaret, the quiet, dark-haired nurse entered the ward. She checked on two other patients before crossing the room to Charity.

“Mrs. Barnum?” she asked rhetorically, pulling up a spindly chair.

Charity turned, trying to focus.

Margaret looked at her with wide, concerned eyes. “Doctor Warshaw asked me to speak with you. He is concerned that your husband...he’s taking in very little water. His state has made him unable to eat. He is concerned that this state may be...permanent.”

Charity drew in a sharp breath. “What are you saying?” she demanded.

Margaret took a moment before continuing, “Mrs. Barnum...if your husband continues to languish in this state, he will starve to death. We can get in just enough water to keep him alive, but he’s not able to eat. And starvation...I’ve seen it. It takes weeks...and it is awful.”

Charity felt like she’d been struck in the chest. She struggled to speak, asking, “So what am I to do?”

The nurse looked at her with compassion and said, “We can use a new therapy they’re trying here, something that’s been successful in Scotland, where the doctor introduces fluids directly into the blood. Quite revolutionary. It sometimes helps patients who are…”

“Dying?” Charity spat at her.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret said, “We want to do all we can. This therapy may help. But if he does not eat...Doctor Warshaw wants you to consider...whether prolonging his suffering is the right course.”

Charity felt sick. “What are you implying?”

“There is a relatively new drug, when administered in certain doses, that can relieve the suffering of patients who would otherwise have a long and arduous end.”

Charity balled her hands into fists. Standing up, she ordered, “Get out. Get out! How dare you come in and ask me to...to…”

She couldn’t even say it. They wanted to kill him. They had given up. They were offering to put her husband down like a foundering horse. She was so angry she was shaking.

“Get out!” she screamed, startling the other patients.

Margaret gave her a long look, her eyes full of sadness, and then turned and left the ward.

Charity dropped back onto the bed. She put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Her heart ached. The pain was physical, as though someone had driven a blade through her and left it to torment her. Standing, she pulled over the spindly chair and sat as close to Phinn as she could. She took his hand and pressed his fingers to her lips.

Two days ago, Charity had asked the nurses to help her wash most of the blood from his hair, working around the bandages. She’d paid someone to come and shave him as best they could. She had bathed him herself, refusing to allow him to wallow in filth like some of the patients who were abandoned to the hospitals in their time of greatest need. Still, even with her best efforts, he was pale and thinner, and so still.

Leaning in, she begged, “Please Phinn. Please don’t make me do this. I can’t let them come in here and take you from me. From the girls. Please wake up. Please hear me! Please!”

She begged until the tears took over and her voice was hoarse from pleading.

* * *

“What will you do, without him?”

Phillip turned sharply to face Anne. She was draped across the sofa in the Barnum’s parlor, exhausted. He had arrived just a few minutes before to tell her how ticket sales looked for the night and inquire about Caroline and Helen. They were reading upstairs, and the house was quiet.

Phillip sat down next to her. “Don’t talk like that. Like you’ve given up on him.”

Anne sat up and leaned in, studying him with her glossy brown eyes, and said, “Phillip...I want him well, too. But...it’s been days.”

Phillip shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll come around. He has to. He can overcome this like everything else.”

Still holding his gaze, Anne said, “This isn’t like working a few nights straight to break in a new act or convincing a new investor to come on board. Some things...don’t heal.”

Phillip stood suddenly and walked to the fireplace. Crossing his arms and refusing to look at her, he said, “I won’t accept that. I won’t.”

Standing and closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. Resting her head on his shoulder blades, Anne said softly, “I love you Phil. I do. But you can’t do this to yourself. He’s human. He can’t live forever.”

Phillip tensed and replied, “I know. But not now. I’m not losing him now. Not like this.”

Anne held him tighter, wishing she had more words, better words. Any words to soothe the ache in Phillip that she could not reach.

He pulled away suddenly, saying, “I’m glad the girls are well. I have a meeting with Peter Murray, from the Board of Trade. Hopefully, we still have a show tonight.”

Anne flinched as the front door slammed.

* * *

Late that night, Charity lay in the bed across from Phinn, her eyes trying to fall closed in spite of her best effort to keep them open. It was a vicious cycle, her body demanding rest and the fear of drifting off and waking to find her husband dead. Just a few feet away, Caroline was curled up in the bed beside her father. She had asked if she could stay the night in the ward, and she had demonstrated such maturity of late that Charity couldn’t deny her. She watched as Caroline stared at her father, much as she had when she was a toddler, her bright hazel eyes, _his eyes,_ locked on him in adoration. Now, the adoration was mixed with sorrow.

As Charity’s eyes drifted shut again, she heard a sweet voice singing softly:

_Every night I lie in bed,_   
_The brightest colors fill my head,_   
_A million dreams are keeping me awake…_   
_A million dreams for the world we’re gonna make…_

Charity rolled over in the bed onto her right side. She didn’t want Caroline to see her cry again. That was _their_ song. Just a little rhyme and a melody Phinn had made up when they were kids. Then it became their family’s song. Now, it was another spear in Charity’s heart.

_Please Phinn. Please._

She begged silently.

The next moment was another that Charity would remember, with sharp clarity, for the rest of her life. She would forever remember the horror of seeing him fall. But she would also remember, in exquisite detail, the moment when she heard Phinn’s voice again. It was raspy and barely audible, but he finished the song.

“For the world we’re gonna make.”

Charity sat upright, certain she had been dreaming. She nearly fell over the chair trying to get to him. Caroline, who had clearly heard it too, slipped out of the bed, still holding her father’s left hand.

Charity reached down and put both of her hands on his cheeks and whispered, “Phinn?”

His eyes were still closed. His lips twitched, but he otherwise did not move.

She took his left hand in hers, kept her right hand on his cheek, and leaned close to his ear and repeated, “Phinn?”

There was a moment of nothing, where Charity held her breath.

And then he squeezed her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, forgive me if any of the medical/historical details are not accurate. I'm trying to make it feel right without spending an obnoxious amount of time researching. I did confirm that the Board of Trade would have investigated accidents in a public place. Also, IV therapy was just becoming common around 1850. Morphine was in existence, and assisted suicide was technically illegal, but I have to believe there were still instances of "accidentally" giving too much to allow patients a peaceful death. Especially in an era before toxicology reports. So, there you are.


	5. Chapter 5

Charity sent Caroline for the nurse. She was afraid if she let go of Phinn’s hand, she would lose him again. Her eldest daughter bolted from the ward and returned a few minutes later with a gray-haired woman who had introduced herself two days ago as Sarah. With Charity still holding his hand, she examined Phinn, her face skeptical.

Finally, she said, “Mrs. Barnum, everything appears to be the same. Are you sure you didn’t imagine…”

“No.” Caroline’s reply was emphatic. “He spoke. He remembers our song.”

The nurse shook her head, “Maybe you thought…”

With her fingers still entwined with her husband’s, Charity said, “We didn’t imagine it! We didn’t! If you don’t believe me, sit with us until he speaks again!”

Sarah’s expression softened into sad compassion. “Maybe he did speak, Mrs. Barnum. Maybe he did.”

Charity could tell the nurse still didn’t believe her, and she was too exhausted to argue.

Sarah made some notes on the papers at the end of the bed, then left them alone again.

Looking defeated, Caroline said, “I heard it, Mama. I know I did. He finished our song.”

Charity finally removed her hand from Phinn’s and crossed to her daughter. Wrapping her arms around her, she said, “I know you did, love. I heard it, too.”

“Then what do we do?”

Charity thought it over before saying, “Come here. Let’s sit close to him and tell stories. Tell the most fantastic story, like he used to do before you went to sleep at night.”

Caroline looked elated, and so Charity sat across the bed from her. She took Phinn’s hand again and listened as her daughter began to recount stories Phinn had told years before. Caroline’s eyes were full of light as she recounted the adventures of princesses and pirates and animals come to life. She was still enough of a child to appreciate the wonder of fantasy stories. At some point, in the wee hours, Caroline could no longer stay awake. Charity helped her daughter to the bed where she had been sleeping. Then, she returned to her husband. Very carefully, she crawled into the small bed with him. She was very still, so as not to touch any of his injuries, but she rested her head on his chest and told him about all the magic he’d brought into her life. After a few minutes, in spite of her determination to talk to him until he spoke again, she fell asleep.

A few hours later, as dawn broke, Charity woke to the sound of a smooth, deep voice. Opening her eyes, she realized Phinn was murmuring again. With her ear against his chest, she could feel the vibration of his words.

Lifting her head, she heard him say, “Charity. Caroline. Helen.”

He repeated their names another two times before falling still. His words were still raspy and quiet, but he was speaking. She had not imagined it. But his eyes still remained closed.

Charity talked to him for a bit as the rising sun painted the room in pink and copper, letting Caroline sleep. She told him Helen was at home and that everything was taken care of. She told him the circus was going on each night. She wanted him to be calm, if he could hear her. He murmured a few more times, but did not wake.

Charity didn’t know what else to do. Suddenly, she wondered if this was all Phinn would ever do. She remembered her mother talking about a friend whose father was kicked by a horse and fell into a deep sleep and never did more than mumble for the last six months of his life. The thought made her nauseous. Truly unsure what to do, she slid out of the bed and splashed her face with water from the basin by the bed. Then she took Phinn’s hand again.

She stared at him, trying to find proof that he, the real _him_ , was in there somewhere. On an impulse, Charity leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It wasn’t obscene, but it was with great intention in hopes that he would feel how much she loved him.

To her surprise, just as she was about to pull away, Phinn reached up and ever so gently touched her face with his left hand. When she pulled back, his eyes fluttered, and then opened.

* * *

Phillip sat on one of the familiar hay bales backstage at the circus that same morning. He’d been there since before dawn, unable to sleep. Anne had stirred when he left the Barnum’s house. They were making use of the guest quarters, which were more than adequate considering he and Anne lived in flat a few blocks away that was barely big enough to swing a cat. Phillip had always been frugal when it was _his_ money he was dealing with. That was the reason he’d had enough to bail out P.T. after the fire. It was the reason he was going to be able to buy a beautiful home—when the time was right. Now, however, all thoughts of the future escaped him.

The sound of rustling skirts caught his attention, and Lettie was almost on top of him before he realized she was in the tent.

“Whatcha doing, ringmaster? Show’s not for hours.”

Phillip looked up into her dark brown eyes. Lettie had a quick wit, when she was comfortable  with her surroundings. He assumed it was in part a defense mechanism, but beneath the wit was a soft heart and it showed in her eyes. She looked at Phillip like she wanted to ask a lot of questions. But she didn’t.

Phillip sighed. “I couldn’t sleep. Murray, from the Board of Trade, was here yesterday. Says he thinks the ropes were bad. And the pulleys are too narrow. That’s why the rope snapped.”

“Well they sure figured that out quick,” Lettie snapped, adjusting her simple house dress over her knees as she sat down beside Phillip.

“That’s what they do.” He shrugged in defeat.

“So, what’s that mean for us?” Lettie’s question was casual, but Phillip could sense the worry.

“Nothing, yet. Murray agrees it was an accident. Nothing malicious involved. But, you know, everyone’s always looking for a reason to shut this place down.”

Lettie sighed. “I don’t see why people have to be so hard-hearted. What’s wrong with giving people a good time? What is so wrong with us?”

Phillip looked her over. “Some people will never accept anything that’s different. They don’t like the fact that we break the rules. They hate that Anne and I come to their fancy parties, and they don’t like how P.T. makes his money. When people are used to power, to stepping on the backs of those who are different or just less fortunate, they don’t like having that power challenged. The circus challenges them. We dare to imply that the people they push into the gutter are worth lifting up, even fighting for.”

“So what’s Murray going to do about us?” Lettie asked more gently.

Phillip rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. He said they have to discuss his findings. But if they think we’re a ‘public threat,’ they can shut us down.”

Lettie laughed with obvious sarcasm. “We’re not hanging the _audience_ from the tent poles.”

“I know,” Phillip hung his head, “but people who hate us just don’t care.”

Lettie looked away, her spirit too dampened to reply, Silence passed between them for a few minutes.

Suddenly, in a whirl of skirts, Anne came flying through the canvas flaps of the tent.

“Phillip!”

He looked at her, confused.

“It’s P.T.! He’s awake! Charity says he’s awake! She sent a message from the hospital.” Anne was out of breath, but she handed him the slip of paper.

Phillip read over the message written in the neat penmanship of a courier.

_He’s awake. Come as soon as you can. He asked for you._

_Charity._

Phillip read it over and over, sure it was a joke.

Finally, Lettie snatched it from his hand, read it, and said, “Come on! Don’t sit there like you’ve got a busted head, too!”

The questionable nature of her joke was lost on Phillip as he rose from the hay bale, kissed Anne firmly on the mouth, and ran from the tent.

He was out of earshot when Lettie said, “I’ll guess we’ll just meet him at the hospital, then.”

* * *

Charity stared into Phinn’s eyes for at least a minute, looking for recognition, looking for the man she loved. He looked back. His eyes appeared more brown this morning in the warm dawn light.

Finally, he said softly, “Charity?”

She felt her eyes well up and tears run down her cheeks again. She gently leaned her forehead against his and whispered with great relief, “Phinn.”

Once Charity fetched the doctor, the space around her husband’s bed quickly filled with people. All three nurses on duty were making notes or awaiting instructions while the doctor examined Phinn from his broken legs to his wounded skull. Phinn winced and cried out a couple of times at the examination. The doctor looked confused, as though he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

Charity sat beside the bed in the spindly chair, gently stroking Phinn’s hair and waiting for the medical staff to conclude what she already knew—he was an incredible man who had defied the odds.

Caroline sat on the bed behind Charity, smiling broadly and twirling her dark brown hair around her fingers. She looked ready to burst into tears of happiness.

Dr. Warshaw asked, “Could I speak with you, Charity?”

She nodded, rose from the chair, and followed him out into the corridor.

He said, “Your husband has defied my expectations. I can say now, I didn’t expect him to last the first night. He seems to know you and your children, and the basics of his life. This is a good sign. However, I want you to be prepared. He is awake, but he is far from getting out of the bed. I haven’t seen a lot of patients survive this kind of injury to the head, so I can’t tell you exactly what to expect there. I have, however, seen a great number of injuries to the limbs and the spine. Very often, these things heal, but the patient is never able to walk again. And I want you to be prepared, Charity, because I know what your husband did for a living. I know he’s never been one to be...still.”

Were it not for the genuine compassion in the doctor’s face, Charity would have slapped him. She was livid that he would turn such a joyous moment into telling her her husband would be a cripple.

She took a deep, calming breath and stated, “My husband is not done with his work. Not even close. Don’t you dare tell me what he can’t do. No one tells P.T. Barnum he can’t do something!”

Then she turned and stormed back into the ward.

* * *

When Phillip arrived at the hospital, one of the nurses working at the front desk escorted him to the ward with which he was now familiar. The long, airy room faced east, so the sun was pouring through the windows when he entered. Nurses were attending to patients up and down the ward, but he focused on the bed just to his left. Charity sat as she had been for almost a week, holding her husband’s hand. Caroline was on the other side of the bed, in another wooden chair. She appeared to be talking to her father. Phillip would have sworn nothing had changed, but when he got closer, he realized P.T.’s eyes were open and he was listening to his daughter.

Phillip walked to the end of the bed, and P.T. turned to look at him.

“Phillip.” The showman’s voice was raspy, but he seemed fully aware of who stood before him. “How’s my circus?”

Phillip was stunned for a moment. He knew he should have expected no other question from P.T., but it still caught him off guard. After a brief silence, Phillip couldn’t help laughing. Charity joined him, and P.T. cracked a tiny smile himself. Caroline giggled, and for the first time in days, Phillip felt a weight lift.

Cocking his head, he answered, “The show must go on, you know. Did you expect us to shut down without you?”

P.T. raised an eyebrow, and Phillip felt the tension drain from his body. This banter was so normal, and yet he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until this moment. He drew a deep breath as his eyes welled up with tears of relief.

After about an hour, Anne arrived with Lettie and Helen in tow. The nurses warned them all that they could have just a few more minutes, and then they had to leave the other patients in peace. Anne wrapped her arms around Phillip, and he could feel the relief in her as well. Helen climbed into her sister’s lap and placed a delicate kiss on her father’s forehead. She looked so much like Charity, with her blonde ringlets shining in the sunlight. Caroline pushed her sister off, as they were almost the same size, and pretended to be annoyed. Phillip could see she was only pretending, because Caroline was so much like her father—determined and headstrong, and yet kind to a fault.

Lettie took P.T.’s hand and squeezed it, but she didn’t say anything. Phillip knew she loved P.T. like family. She was the first act he’d invited into the circus, and Phillip knew how much Lettie loved him for that.

After another thirty minutes, the nurses began to usher them out of the ward.

When only Charity remained, Phillip took the chair where Caroline had been sitting.

P.T. turned his head slightly, looked him over and said, “So...how’s my circus.”

For the next few minutes, Phillip filled him in. He talked about attendance numbers and which acts were rotating in each night. He talked about a new act they had interviewed the week before P.T. fell and how their rehearsals were coming along. He talked about anything except the Board of Trade, because he didn’t want P.T. worrying about the future of their circus in his current state.

They were interrupted when Dr. Warshaw came into the ward.

Standing at the end of the bed and reading the nurses’ notes, he said, “Mr. Barnum. I’d like to try having you sit up in the bed.”

P.T. stared back at the doctor like he’d issued a challenge and said, “No problem.”

Phillip glanced at Charity. She crossed to where Phillip was standing and pulled him toward the doorway while the doctor talked to P.T.

Quietly, Charity said, “When the doctor came this morning, he examined everything. He says the wounds look good, on the outside, but what’s inside is more difficult to assess. His right leg looks straight enough, but the doctor can feel several breaks. It’s terribly painful, every time he examines his legs.” She took a deep breath. “John says the pain is good, because Phinn can feel all of it, but he’s not making any movements. Not his legs. Not even his toes. So he’s concerned...about his spine.”

Phillip felt a twinge of fear begin to take root again in his belly. A different kind of fear.

The nurses returned, bringing with them an assortment of vials and bottles and syringes. They took their places on either side of the bed. Phillip glanced at Charity, who had begun to look more and more concerned. Each nurse attended to different wounds, applying the ingredients of the bottles and rewrapping P.T.’s head and right leg. They worked meticulously, and Phillip couldn’t help but admire their craft. Then, the one on the right, who they all now knew as Margaret, drew some liquid from one of the vials into a syringe. She placed it on the table by the bed.

Charity looked up at Phillip and then grasped his hand for support. They both sensed something was wrong, or at least that the atmosphere had shifted. Both nurses, following Dr. Warshaw’s instructions, took P.T.’s hands. The doctor moved to the head of the bed. He placed his left arm behind the showman’s shoulders. Phillip felt like the sound in the room became muted as the doctor instructed P.T. to try to sit up, allowing the two nurses to help pull him up as the doctor lifted his shoulders. Holding onto the nurses’ hands, who had clearly done this many times and were stronger than they looked, P.T. glanced at Phillip and Charity before trying to lift his weight from the bed.

What happened next would stay with Phillip for a long time.

P.T. let out a scream that caused Charity to gasp and her hands to fly to her mouth. It was a feral, awful sound that drove right through Phillip. It was a cry from the kind of pain that drove a man to an early grave.

Even with the help of three people, P.T. was only able to lift himself about six inches off the pillow.

Just about the time Phillip was ready to intervene and Charity looked ready to cry, the nurses let go and Dr. Warshaw let P.T. lay back down. Then Margaret swiftly seized the syringe from the table and stabbed it expertly into the showman’s thigh.

The doctor looked at Charity and said, “Morphine.”

From the look on Dr. Warshaw’s face, Phillip could tell their excitement had been quite premature.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Charity sat with Phinn for the rest of the day. After giving him the morphine, the nurses and Dr. Warshaw left him to rest. Charity didn’t know if they considered his effort to sit up a success or a failure, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to know the answer yet. 

Phinn slept until early afternoon, when Margaret came in with more water. The staff had been asking him to drink since the morning. After helping him drink as much as he could, Margaret stated she would return shortly.

Still sitting next to him, Charity reached up and brushed her fingers through her husband’s hair. It was impossibly mussed from the bandages and the pillow. Phinn stared at her, his eyes full of devotion as well as exhaustion.

“Chairy,” he said softly, reaching for her hand.

She held his fingers and chuckled as she replied, “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Maybe it’s time to bring it back?” he retorted gently.

She smiled. “It’s a silly name for a silly young girl.”

Trying to turn and see her more clearly, he returned, “There’s never been anything silly about you, Charity.”

She shook her head and waved him off with her other hand.

His eyes grew more serious as he continued, “I mean it. How many days have you sat here now? Waiting on me?”

She smiled at him and said, “It’s been four, almost five days now.”

The doctor had told him that morning, when he woke, how long it had been, but Phinn was obviously having trouble remembering.

Squeezing her hand, he said, “You must have been terribly afraid, seeing what happened to me.”

Charity felt her stomach turn at the memory. She nodded, averting her eyes. 

“How are the girls? Really? After seeing all that…?”

Charity smiled. “They’re much better, now that they’ve talked to you. Helen was babbling away when Phillip and Anne took them home this morning. She hasn’t talked like that in days. Caroline rolled her eyes, so I’d say things are feeling normal on that front.”

Phinn laughed lightly, and then winced.

“Phinn…” Charity grew serious, wishing she could do something to end his pain.

Closing his eyes momentarily, he returned, “I just need a few more days. I’ll heal up and things will be fine.”

Charity couldn’t argue with him. She saw no reason to dash hope. Phinn had always been optimistic, even facing the greatest of obstacles. 

Margaret returned with a tray of supplies. She set it on the table on the opposite side of the bed from Charity and said, “We have to change the bandages and clean the wounds, and then we’d like you to try to eat something, Mr. Barnum.”

He glanced at the nurse and her tray of tonics and tools, and grimaced.

Charity squeezed her husband’s hand, released it, and stood to address Margaret. “I’d like to help, if you’ll allow it. I mean, I’d like to learn how you’re caring for my husband’s wounds, so I can be of use.”

Margaret looked at her as if trying to assess her capability. Charity could tell that the nurse only looked young. Her slight frame belied her age and experience. Finally, she said, “All right. A lot of women can’t stomach it, but we can try.”

Charity squared her shoulders and said, “I’m not just any woman.”

In spite of his exhaustion and prone state, Phinn laughed.

Margaret allowed herself a smile as well, and then she began explaining what she had on the tray. Before touching her patient, she asked him, “Do you remember what Dr. Warshaw told you this morning?”

Phinn looked up at her and said, “I know there’s a lot wrong with me.”

“We’re going to start with the wound to your head, Mr. Barnum.” She carefully began to remove the wrapped bandages, showing Charity the gash to the back of her husband’s head. 

Charity felt her stomach churn, but she swallowed past it. In the early years of her marriage, she had not only given birth to her own children, but she had sat with several of her friends in the building where she first lived with Phinn, while they gave birth. She had seen women almost bleed to death. She had seen one child removed from his mother’s womb with a scalpel. The mother did not survive. It wasn’t talked about how much blood and death a working class woman of childbearing age could see in her lifetime. Charity drew on the experience to shore herself up, refusing to faint like a high-society wallflower. 

Margaret handed the bottle of carbolic acid to Charity and said, “We put it on the bandage, then wrap it tightly over the wound. Watch for the stitching.”

Charity did as she was told, carefully covering the ugly, jagged wound on the back of Phinn’s head while Margaret carefully held his head off of the pillow. Phinn was quiet, but she could tell by his rapid breathing that he was in pain. After the first bandage, Margaret handed over more, and Charity wrapped her husband’s head carefully.

When they’d finished, Margaret said, “Underneath that gash to the back of your head, Mr. Barnum, there is a break in the bone. The doctor could see it when you came in, the gash was so bad. It should heal with time, though.”

Margaret was repeating what the doctor had said this morning, having guessed correctly that Phinn didn’t remember.

“How is your vision?” she asked.

“I can see my wife,” Phinn stated.

“Well, I suppose that’s good,” Margaret agreed. “But if you have trouble seeing her, or anything else, Dr. Warshaw wants to know.”

Phinn nodded.

Margaret pulled the blankets back, revealing the length of her patient’s body. The thin gown he wore could not conceal that he was thinner. Charity could only imagine what several more days without food would have done to him. Margaret carefully pulled the gown, which was more of a long vest, from his arms. Phinn tried to help, in spite of his obvious discomfort. With his upper half now bare, Charity startled, then tried to conceal her reaction from her husband. His torso was mottled with bruises, mostly on the right side.

Gently, Margaret explained, “These are from landing on the packed floor. They appear to be just on the surface, but there could be damage to the ribs, underneath. We can’t be sure, and they also heal with time. Dr. Warshaw had us looking for trouble with his breathing, at first.”

Charity watched as Phinn’s chest rose up and down with each steady breath. She could tell he wasn’t thrilled at being stared at like a research specimen, especially by someone other than his wife. 

“Luckily,” Margaret continued, “he seems to be breathing normally.”

She allowed Charity to help her husband back into the gown. Then, Margaret lifted the blankets covering Phinn’s right leg. She pushed them carefully to his hip, exposing his entire leg. Then, she carefully began to unwrap the splint and bandages stabilizing his whole leg.

When his leg was exposed, Charity drew a sharp breath and she was sure Phinn saw her reaction this time. 

“I still have a leg, yes?” he quipped. 

Charity couldn’t laugh at his attempt at humor. His right leg was ugly shades of black, purple and yellow. The bandages had covered another gash, this one along the outside of his thigh. The stitches that ran the length of it looked like ugly teeth marks marring his skin. There was a smaller wound in his shin that had the same sutures.

Margaret explained, “This is where the bone came through.” She indicated both wounds. “The doctor thinks they’re in place now, but time will tell.”

Charity followed her lead in cleaning, bandaging, and resplinting the wounds. Phinn closed his eyes, and Charity could sense his pain. When the right leg was done, Margaret pulled the blankets back down and exposed his left leg. She explained that the lower left leg had a more simple fracture, based on the bruising to his calf. The nurse left the splint alone, because the skin had not been broken. 

When they were finished, Margaret said, “As the doctor said this morning, the wound to your back is one we cannot see. It’s in the lower back, and only time will tell us how it will heal.” She hesitated. “But we will keep trying to have you sit up each day.” She pulled the blankets back up over him.

Charity adjusted the blankets further while Margaret went to fetch a meal tray. The nurse came back shortly with a bowl of broth and some more water.

“We want as much of this in you as you can tolerate,” Margaret stated. “If it’s motivating, I’ll be back with more morphine once you’ve eaten.”

Phinn tried to smile. “Never had morphine before today, but I’ll say it’s worth forcing down bland food.”

Margaret set the tray down next to the bed, and Charity agreed to help him eat. Margaret left them alone to check on her other patients.

Carefully rearranging the pillow behind her husband’s head, Charity helped him eat a few bites of broth. She was glad that he seemed hungry in spite of his pain and fatigue. She helped him drink some of the water, then placed the glass back on the tray.

Reaching out and seizing her gently by the upper arm, Phinn pulled her in close to him. She tried to avoid his torso, now that she’d seen all the bruises, but he pulled her in anyway and kissed her softly. Then he said, “I love you, best of wives and best of women.”

She pulled back and looked at him, confused.

“From the correspondence of Alexander Hamilton, to his wife, Eliza. I read it in one of Caroline’s school books,” Phinn explained. “They had a great love story, apparently.”

Charity kissed him again. “Not as great as ours, I’m certain.”

Phinn kiss her harder, until she pulled away and insisted he eat.

“Charity,” he finally waved off the broth, “Phillip isn’t telling me everything about the circus, is he?”

She swallowed hard, remembering Phillip’s rushed explanations in the corridor of the hospital when Phinn was unconscious. She thought about the newspapers he showed her daily. The story of Phinn falling had made the front page the day after it happened. Charity would have shredded it to pieces had Phillip not insisted he needed to know what the press was saying. Now, she also knew he was trying to fend off the Board of Trade. She was afraid to tell Phinn, however, because he needed to get well.

But Charity simply couldn’t lie to him.

“People are asking questions. Writing crazy stories. Same as always,” Charity explained. “And the Board of Trade has been investigating. But they say it was an accident. No one’s fault. Not even yours.”

Phinn looked up at her, his eyes searching. 

She set the bowl down again and went on, “I love you Phinn. I love you more than my own life. The only thing that would destroy me as badly as losing you, would be losing one of the girls. I love the circus because it’s  _ you _ , Phinn. But you have to let Phillip handle this. You trained him. You know he can do it. So you have to let him.”

“Charity, I can’t just lie here and…”

She leaned over him again, cupping his face as she spoke. “Phinn, your leg...it looks bad. And that is the truth. It scares me. It makes me hurt for you. All of it does. And they’re going to come in here in the morning and…” She struggled with the memory of his awful scream. “Let Phillip handle it. Please just get well. Because I want to see you in the ring again as much as anyone, and I fear…”

He pulled her face close to his, so they were cheek to cheek, and said, “Okay, Chairy. Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note...if you find any mistakes, typos, issues, or you are just confused, feel free to tell me. I love positive feedback, but critique is helpful, too. ;-)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took me a bit longer. I had to take a break and do my taxes. Taxes suck.
> 
> The next chapter is well on the way, too, so it will come quicker.
> 
> Just for fun...I am an aerialist myself who once planned to join the circus, so I knew I was going to fall for  
> The Greatest Showman before I ever saw it. The silks, the lyra, the rope...I love it all so much.  
> Some of my inspiration comes from the film, and some from my own love of "flying."

* * *

 

Later that same night, Phillip and Anne were cuddled together in the guest bed at the Barnum house. It was past midnight, as the show had run long.

“We’re having sold out crowds. Standing room only. We’ve even had to turn people away this week,” Phillip explained, yawning from exhaustion.

Anne stroked her hand gently over his chest and said, “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Phillip sighed. “Yes and no. Attendance is up this week because tragedy always draws a crowd. I know some of them are trying to show their support for the show. But some of them are simply morbidly curious about what happened to P.T. The worst ones might even be hoping for another accident.”

Anne frowned. “That’s terrible.”

“People can be terrible. In this morning’s paper, they’re suggesting that P.T. died from his injuries and we’re keeping it a secret to keep the circus going,” Phillip stated.

Anne’s eyes widened. “That’s....ridiculous!”

“I suppose it is,” Phillip agreed, “but businesses have done worse to keep the doors open. The Kowalski brothers pretended to have conversations with their father in his office when clients came in to keep their law practice going. He was dead and buried for a year before the clients found out.”

“That’s terrible.” Anne shook her head.

“I know. But the press loves a scandal. They were outright giddy when they found out about Mr. Kowalski.”

“Any more news from Murray, with the Board of Trade?” Anne asked carefully.

“Not yet. But I don’t know that no news is good news in this situation,” Phillip mused. “I’m also doing eight shows a week now. I have to admit, I have no idea how P.T. did this by himself in the beginning. I’m exhausted and...I don’t know…”

Anne slid her right hand up to his cheek, leaned down, and kissed him long and slowly.

“You’re only one man, Phil. You’re running yourself into the ground. You’re trying to be a father to P.T.’s kids. You’re sorting out the circus. You’re on _every_ night. No one can keep up this pace,” she said.

Phillip pulled her in for another kiss. “ _You_ keep me going. You are my strength, Anne.”

She smiled mischievously and shifted her weight onto him so their legs were entangled under the quilt. “Promise me something?”

Phillip looked up at her curiously.

“Look for someone who can help you. I know P.T. created the role of ringmaster. But he trained you. Now, it’s time to train someone else, someone who can ease the burden for you. Sharing the weight of it all...that would be good for both of you.”

Phillip shook his head. “They need me, Anne.”

Anne silenced him with a finger to his lips. “That’s what P.T. once said to Charity, remember? And it almost cost him his family. So ask for help. Do it for me, Phillip, and for the children we hope to have.”

He couldn’t help grinning at the idea of their future children.

So he crushed Anne to himself and kissed her thoroughly before losing himself in her for the night—a beautiful distraction from the chaos around them.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Charity divided her time between the hospital and her home. She insisted Phillip and Anne move back to their own house, but Anne, in turn, insisted on staying over on the nights Charity spent at the hospital ward. She was less afraid to leave Phinn alone, now that the threat of him up and dying while she was gone seemed to have passed, but she still spent every third night with him. Dr. Warshaw was convinced his patient was now in the recovery phase, albeit a long and painful recovery phase.

Every morning, the doctor and two nurses would come and try to help Phinn sit up in the bed. And every morning, it broke Charity’s heart. He had learned to temper his response, now that he knew what to expect, but he still ended up crying out in agony most days. The other patients in the ward had also learned what to expect and looked on with pity or empathy.

What concerned Charity the most, however, wasn’t his pain. It was how solemn Phinn had become. His initial optimism had faded into a dull acceptance of his situation, and Charity had never seen him so despondent. Even in the early days of their marriage, when he was dismissed from job after job and they had to scrape their pennies together to buy milk for their babies, Phinn would still smile his beautiful grin and wipe away her tears. Phinn was always the light in the dark, and Charity didn’t know how to help him now. She ached for him, but so much of it was beyond her control.

Unlike before the accident, his days were now a monotonous routine. He was given breakfast, and then the tortuous process of helping him sit up would begin. It was always followed by morphine and several hours of sleep. Then lunch and changing all of his bandages. Charity helped when she was at the hospital, watching her husband’s wounds slowly knit themselves back together. The external injuries looked much better than when he fell, now three weeks ago. Charity hoped with everything in her that his bones were healing the same.

On the three week anniversary of Phinn’s fall, the girls came to visit their father once again, as they had been doing routinely. They stayed for about an hour, talking about the upcoming start of school and Caroline’s dance classes.

The weather was still sweltering.

It was late August, and the city held onto the heat well past dusk each night, wearing it like a heavy coat. During the day, the fire brigade had taken to hosing down the children playing in the streets, who laughed and squealed with delight. Helen would join in with unsuppressed joy, soaking whatever dress she wore. Caroline, on the other hand, would dip her toes in the puddles and refused to play with the other children. Charity understood what she was going through. Her body was changing, working toward womanhood. Still, Charity wouldn’t let this stage of life steal her daughter’s joy. So she bought Caroline and Helen swimming costumes, making sure they were modest enough that both could enjoy the water without feeling self-conscious.

In spite of Phinn’s condition, they had good days. The girls stopped staring at their father like he would die at any moment. His prone position in the bed became their new normal. They brought books and read to him. Helen told him all about the calico kitten she’d found, adopted, and named Milo in spite of the fact that “he” was clearly female. Caroline talked about how much she missed her dance classes during the summer hiatus.

Charity tried to hold onto her hope. But with every day, as the initial pleading for her husband’s life faded away, she found herself in a new kind of despondency. She found herself wondering if this was her role now—caretaker to an invalid. Would she now measure every day of life from a new beginning, the day Phinn fell? The thought made her feel heavy and tired, and then she hated herself for feeling such a way. She loved Phinn. Loved him with every breath and every bone in her body. She would’ve followed him anywhere, but this was not a place she’d ever envisioned. If he never walked, perhaps could never sit upright again, what kind of life was that? It would be like stripping a bird of its wings.

_A creature who has learned to fly will never be content on the ground._

She’d read that in a book somewhere when she was a girl. Charity vaguely remembered the story being about a horse that grew wings, only to have them stolen. It was a sad story, but then, so many fairy tales really were.

And Charity understood the love of flight better than anyone knew.

That same night, after leaving the hospital, Charity tucked her girls into bed. She asked Grace, her housemaid and nanny, to listen for the children. Then she made her way outside into the darkness and over to the circus tent. It was warm, yet she wore a cloak around her shoulders with the hood over her bright blonde hair. When she arrived at the tent, she found the usual scene after a show. Peanut shells littered the floor, along with paper fans and other trash. The roustabouts would come through in the morning and clean up for the next night’s show, but all was quiet for now. Charity walked through the backstage area, finding it empty. The rest of the cast would be out eating and drinking for a few hours before those that called the tent home returned to sleep. Circus performers were proving to be a nocturnal bunch, often going to bed in the wee hours and sleeping until almost noon.

Charity went into the makeshift area Phinn and Phillip used as an office when they were on site. From one of the trunks in the corner, she pulled out a few articles of clothing. Listening again for footsteps, she quickly shed her dress and the layers of undergarments required of a lady. Then, she pulled on one of Anne’s old costumes. The sky blue leotard left her arms and legs bare, which was still a gloriously strange feeling. She pinned up her hair, securing it tightly so the flaxen waves wouldn’t fall into her face. Then she went back out to the main tent. She worked the ropes of the rigging to lower the lyra so she could reach it from the floor. Charity had learned over the past three years that the hoop from which the aerialists hung was called a “lyra.” The ropes were called the “Spanish web.” There was so much more to it than just trapeze. And Charity had fallen in love with all of it.

She had trained in ballet most of her childhood, but it was only to perfect her posture and teach her grace. There was never, ever the promise of performing. Ladies did not perform, and they certainly didn’t dance. Charity clearly remembered her mother’s face the one time she’d asked about training to dance professionally. She’d looked as though she might vomit. Now, Charity wished she’d defied her. She wished she’d broken free of the chains of her upbringing earlier and run away with Phinn at thirteen. Even now, they danced together frequently, and when he would lift her, the thrill of the power of movement made her giddy. She wouldn’t change their life as it was, but she wished for the chance to have pursued a dream of her own alongside her husband, to do more than watch from the seats as the circus swirled around her.

_Everyone’s got an act._

It was something Anne said often. Charity understood her completely. It went beyond performing. Phillip’s act was pretending he loved his parents’ friends. Anne’s act was pretending what other people said about her didn’t matter. Phinn’s act was denying when he was in way over his head. And Charity’s act was pretending she didn’t want the spotlight. For fourteen years, she focused solely on her family, on raising her girls. She wanted Phinn’s success to be enough, but as the girls got older, she couldn’t deny the pull of circus ring. She wholly understood Phinn’s desire to “fly.”

Because she had been sneaking into the circus at night for over a year and teaching herself.

Phinn’s fall had not scared her away from the apparatus. It terrified her in a different way, but when it came to the circus it only made her realize how quickly things could change. Life was too short to be afraid. And she needed this distraction from her worry about Phinn’s future. So, now that she knew he would be coming home, Charity returned to her secret affair with the aerial arts.

In the stillness, she reached up and seized the lyra and pulled herself up, feeling her muscles burn from the effort. Flying was not easy. She wove her legs around the cool metal and arched her back. There was certainly something sensual about dance, especially dance in the air, but in a beautiful way, not in the dirty way her mother had implied. Charity understood why Anne loved this so much. It made her feel complete.

She spun the lyra, and the circus tent whirled around her.

* * *

“Mr. Murray, it’s very late. Can we continue this discussion tomorrow? Or perhaps on Monday?”

Phillip was exhausted, and he’d been arguing with Peter Murray for over two hours. Anne had long since gone home and the rest of the circus was out drinking, blissfully unaware of his struggle.

“I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss.”

Both men stopped at the rear entrance to the circus tent. They had been talking outside, hoping for a breeze as reprieve from the heat.

“You cannot take the aerial acts out of the circus. They are as important as anything else. People don’t just come to see _people_ who are different, they come to see people who can _do_ very different things, things the average person would never attempt. That’s what makes it so thrilling!” Phillip made his point again.

Murray leveled his eyes at Phillip. “If someone dies, would that be thrilling? Because three weeks ago, your founder almost died. And I understand he’s still in a rough state. The city can’t let you keep taking that risk.”

“Life is full of risk!” Phillip exploded.

“But this is unnecessary…”

Phillip chuckled darkly. “Life is also full of unnecessary things! The only truly _necessary_ things are eating and breathing! Everything we do beyond that can either bring us joy, or make us wish death would come sooner. Mr. Murray, I would rather die having risked something, having felt the thrill of something...unnecessary, than doing nothing.”

Murray stared him down.

“And we’re not risking the audience. They are safe at all times.”

Murray shook his head. “No. We can’t risk having someone die in front of hundreds of people. It’s a publicity nightmare.”

Phillip scoffed, “Publicity. Everything comes back to that.” He threw back the tent flap and stormed inside with Murray close behind him.

“Mr. Carlyle? Do I have your word that you will cease all aerial acts effective immediately?”

Phillip didn’t answer. He was staring at the center ring of the circus, his conversation momentarily forgotten. Someone was in the lyra, stretched beautifully, her long legs extended and her back arched as she hung from the metal hoop. He had no idea who she was, and he was sure that only Anne and the two girls from the West Indies, whom she helped train, ever performed in the lyra. But this woman was blonde. In fact, Phillip only new one person with hair that bright, golden blonde.

_Charity._

He realized it was her when she turned her face up toward the lamplight. He took a few steps forward, with Murray still following him. Standing closer, he could see the look of absolute joy on her face, a look he hadn’t seen in weeks. He was angry with her, for a moment, for looking so happy while her husband lay in the hospital, but only for a moment.

“Charity?” He called her name.

Her head turned sharply. Unwinding herself, she quickly dropped from the lyra to the circus floor. She stared at Phillip, and he could tell she was afraid. He stared back, not sure what to say.

Finally, Phillip cleared his throat and said, “This is Mr. Murray, from the Board of Trade. He wants us to take all of our aerial acts out of the show.”

Charity glanced at Murray, and then her eyes met Phillip’s again.

In spite of all the questions he had for her right now, Phillip was sure of one thing. Charity was on his side, and they would both be damned if Peter Murray was going to ground the circus.


	8. Chapter 8

Phillip and Charity stared each other down for at least a minute, neither speaking. Eventually, Mr. Murray cleared his throat and broke the silence.

“Mr. Carlyle, I’ll give you until nine a.m. to agree to remove the aerial acts from the circus. Otherwise, the Board is going to file an injunction to have the circus shut down,” Murray stated.

“Remove?” Charity spoke up. She crossed the space between them and went on, “Remove the aerialists?”

Phillip met her eyes and nodded. “That’s what the Board of Trade wants of us.”

She cut her eyes to Murray. “But that’s half our show!”

Mr. Murray sighed. “That’s not my concern. I’m sure you can find work elsewhere, Miss…?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Charity Barnum. _Mrs_. Charity Barnum.”

Mr. Murray looked genuinely surprised. He looked Charity up and down and said, “Your husband, he approves of these...activities?”

Phillip saw the panic in Charity’s face. He stepped in and said, “P.T. Barnum knows exactly what he’s doing. He has always kept all of us safe. And you should know, _my_ wife is also involved in _these activities._ ”

Mr. Murray looked back at Phillip, frowned, and stated, “Nine a.m. Mr. Carlyle. I want an answer by nine a.m.” Then he turned and left the tent.

Phillip dropped his shoulders in exhaustion. He looked at Charity, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest. He’d never seen this much of her, as the leotard left her arms and long legs bare. He was used to seeing Anne this way, but Charity had always been buttoned up in flowing dresses. She looked every bit the part of a dancer. He had to admit, she looked beautiful in the lyra. Not in a way that made him any less in love with Anne, but beautiful nonetheless. Still, she was Charity Barnum, and he had no idea what to say about this.

What came out was, “Isn’t that Anne’s costume?”

Charity hugged her arms around herself and returned, “Yes. An old one.”

There was another long silence.

Phillip finally asked, “How long have you been…?”

“A year,” Charity answered. “I’ve been sneaking in for a year. I watch Anne and the others, and then I come at night…”

“Does P.T. know?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Charity sighed. “I didn’t want him to think he had to put me in the show. I just...didn’t want anyone to think they had to tell me I’m good, because I’ve had no real training and I don’t need to perform. I just...I love it. Caroline, she gets her love of dance...from me.

Phillip let the words process. “How’s P.T.?”

Charity dropped her arms and said, “A little better each day. The wounds are almost healed. His back, though...he still can’t sit up.”

“And coming here, doing this, does it help?” Phillip didn’t mean to be snarky, but he felt like he was carrying the weight of the circus on his shoulders and he couldn’t imagine playing in a trapeze while everything felt like it was falling apart around them.

Charity understood his implication. “This is the first time I’ve come since the accident. I just needed a few minutes to myself, to let it go for a little while. Because…”

Her voice cracked, and suddenly Phillip was sorrying for being short with her. He also realized she’d just exposed a prejudice he didn’t know he held, a sort-of reverse prejudice. He had no trouble convincing Anne that she belonged in _his_ world, that she was just as much a lady as anyone else, but for Charity to cross into _Anne’s_ world seemed preposterous. And Phillip couldn’t say exactly why.

Through tears, Charity continued, “I’m afraid Phinn’s not going to get well. I’m afraid he’ll be like this for the rest of his life and I think he’s wondering the same thing, and I can see his spirit fading a little every day. It’s killing him, Phillip. The fall didn’t, but losing his life, as it was, is.”

Phillip crossed to her and wrapped her in a comforting embrace, his previous frustration forgotten. “He’s going to walk again, Charity. I know it. And he’s going to walk in here and watch you do this.”

She didn’t respond, and Phillip hoped he had sounded more sure than he felt.

* * *

The next morning, Charity was as the hospital again. Dr. Warshaw had decided to try something new with Phinn. He was currently wrapping her husband’s torso in layers of tight bandages.

“Sometimes,” he explained, “the pressure helps with the pain. Helps patients move more easily.”

Charity nodded and watched. She could see Phinn’s discomfort. He had already been forced through the daily routine of having to sit up, and now he was holding onto the nurses’ arms to keep himself upright. Charity couldn’t help noticing how frail he looked. Phinn was used to working, to helping the roustabouts while telling ridiculous stories to make the work go faster. He was used to dancing every night, to earning every show with sweat and occasionally blood. Staying in the hospital bed had easily stripped him of ten pounds, perhaps more. Charity hated to see it, not that she loved him any less, but because it really was like watching a sky bird molt its feathers in anguish.

Once the doctor cinched the bandages tight, he instructed, “Now, see if you can sit on your own, even for just a minute.”

Charity crossed the room and squeezed herself in between Margaret and the bed. She sat down on the edge, beside her husband, put her hands on his bare shoulders and said, “You can do this.”

He met her gaze, and his usually bright, hazel eyes were full of uncertainty.  But he nodded.

Slowly, Margaret and the other nurse released him, letting Phinn take his own weight. To Charity’s surprise, he held himself there. She could see his breathing quicken, meaning he was fighting the pain, but he held himself up. He seized Charity’s arms and kept his eyes on her. After a moment, for the first time in three weeks, he smiled. For the first time since she was sure she’d lost him, he looked like himself, like her Phinn. Then, he glanced away, and she could tell it was too much for him.

Dr. Warshaw helped him lie back against the pillows and said, “That’s wonderful. That’s exactly what we hoped for.”

Phinn shook his head and said, “It’s been a long time since anyone was this thrilled at me simply sitting up. Next thing you know, you'll be clapping because I ate solid food.”

Charity laughed, because he sounded like himself, too.

“Now,” the doctor went on, “let’s see about that leg.”

Phinn had been consistently able to move his left foot for the past two weeks, but his right leg was in worse shape. The outside wounds were healing nicely, but inside, there was obviously much more damage. Dr. Warshaw pulled the blankets back and revealed Phinn’s leg. The wounds were now deep reddish purple, the stitches having been removed. The bruising was mostly gone, but Charity knew the bones were still struggling to heal. Dr. Warshaw run a small stick up and down Phinn’s leg. He flinched, which he’d been doing for a least a week now.

“Now,” the doctor instructed again, “let’s move those toes.”

Charity held her breath.

After a moment, to her absolute surprise, Phinn moved them. She squealed and had to restrain herself from hugging him. Instead, she carefully leaned in and kissed him. This time, unlike over the past three weeks, he returned her enthusiasm. She felt his hand cup the back of her head and, for just a moment, the familiar heat flickered between them. Then she pulled away, knowing the doctor and a room full of patients were watching.

Before she could move completely out of his grasp, Phinn said lowly, “I love you, Charity Barnum.”

She kissed his cheek and returned, “I love you, Circus King.”

Then she sat up and faced the doctor. Just behind him stood Phillip. He motioned for her to come out into the corridor.

As Charity walked away from the bed, Phinn called out, “I knew you’d try to steal her away from me one day, Phillip Carlyle.”

Charity turned back, and they could both see he was teasing. Her heart felt full at seeing her husband in such a jovial mood.

Once in the corridor, she turned to Phillip and said, “I wish you could’ve been here a few minutes earlier! He was able to sit up at last! And he’s moving both of his feet now! Dr. Warshaw says his vision is clear again. Phillip, I have no idea how it’s possible that he’s done this well, but I thank God or whomever for giving him back to me, if a little at a time.”

Charity stopped talking long enough to realize Phillip wasn’t sharing her joyous expression. His face was somber.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

Phillip looked away. “I gave in to Murray. I told him we would take out the aerial acts.”

She stepped back. “What?”

Phillip shook his head. “We can’t win against them, Charity. They’ll shut the whole thing down.”

Charity’s former excitement was replaced by something close to rage. “No. We can’t give in to him. That’s...half our performers! What are we supposed to tell them? Go back to performing on the streets? Do you want that for Anne?”

Phillip’s eyes flashed. “First, Anne will _never_ be on the streets again. Ever. Second...there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Yes you can!” Charity was nearly shaking. “Fight for it! _Make_ them file the injunction!” She pointed toward the door to the ward. “ _He_ would fight for it, and you know it!”

Phillip shook his head again. “No. I won’t risk the whole circus.”

Charity aimed her finger at him, now. “Then _you_ will be the one to tell Phinn.”

Then she stormed off to find some fresh air, too angry to stay in the corridor any longer.

* * *

Three hours later, Phillip stood backstage in the circus tent, facing the entire cast. He took a deep breath. Anne stood next to him, holding his hand but looking just as concerned as everyone else in the room.

“Just tell us the news, boss,” Lettie spoke up, per usual.

“We can tell it’s not good, so just tell us,” Tom added. Tom, who was born Charles, had embraced his new identity to the point of forgoing his given name.

Phillip took a deep breath. He sensed Anne’s anxiety and he hated what he was about to say.

“Murray, from the Board of Trade, was here again last night. And, I’m afraid, effective today, we have to remove all of the aerial acts from the show.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, the room exploded with voices. Amani and Jacinta, the girls from the West Indies, started yelling in a language Phillip couldn’t understand. J.D. started hollering obscenities, and Lara and Mara, the albino twins who had just started learning the trapeze, held each other and cried. Lettie looked like she was pleading for answers, but Phillip couldn’t hear her over the din. The worst sight of all, however, was Anne. She backed away and gave him a look that rivaled the night, more than two years ago, when she’d said they could never be together. Then, she walked away without a word. And her silence hurt.

Phillip dropped onto a hay bale in defeat.

* * *

Three days later, Dr. Warshaw decided it would be best for Phinn to complete the rest of his recovery at home.

“The wounds are mostly healed, and there’s no sign of infection,” he explained. “The only thing to do now is rest, and wait for the bones to heal as they will.”

Charity helped arrange a special carriage to take her husband home, and she planned to make the journey at dusk, when most everyone was either at home having dinner or out on the town. She also knew that most of the press would be at the circus, looking for more material for scathing articles. She had been following the show in the papers for three days and, true to her word, she still refused to tell Phinn about Phillip’s decision. She would make Phillip explain himself to her husband’s face if it was the last thing she did for the circus.

In spite of all her planning, there were still reporters outside when they left the hospital. Charity was imagining the stories the next day, complete with sketches of her husband as he was wheeled out of the building. It took at least four members of the hospital staff to help him into the carriage, which was designed to allow a patient to lie down for transport. Charity rode next to him, holding his hand and grateful to leave the reporters behind.

Once they arrived at home, it took an equal number of people to help get Phinn up and into their apartment as it had to get him out of the hospital. The nurses and male staff members hauled him up three flights of stairs as delicately as possible. Charity could see the pain and exhaustion in her husband’s face during the entire ordeal. When he was finally settled into their bed, with the pillows stacked to support his back, Margaret removed his bandages for the last time. She gave Charity a few instructions and promised to be back each day to check on her patient. Then, she gave Phinn a generous dose of morphine.

Outside the bedroom door, Margaret turned back to Charity and said, “I want to see him well almost as much as you, Mrs. Barnum. I love the circus. It’s like nothing else in the city. It’s just...magical.”

Charity sighed. “Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit less magical these days.”

Margaret gave her a confused look.

Charity shook her head. “You’ll read about it soon enough, I’m sure.”

Margaret gave her a compassionate look and promised to be back the next morning.

Three hours later, after allowing the girls to spend a few minutes with their father before they went to bed, Charity and Phinn were alone. For the first time in almost four weeks, there were no other patients or visitors looking at them curiously. There would be no nurses coming in at all hours to check on Phinn. It was quiet, with only the light of one lamp and the muted sounds from the street outside. Very carefully, they had managed to organize the pillows so that Phinn could rest his weight on Charity, with the pillows cushioning his lower back. With the morphine still in his system, the position was tolerable. So Charity leaned against the headboard of their bed, with her husband in her arms for the first time in weeks. She had her left arm wrapped around his torso, and she could feel his warmth through the thin nightshirt. With her right hand, she mindlessly mussed his hair, trying to stay away from the healing scar on the back of his head.

In a low voice, Phinn said, “I don’t think there’s any medicine on this earth as good as your hands.”

Charity smiled and leaned in to say softly, “If only that were true, you would be back in the ring already.”

He grew quiet again, and Charity could sense his pensive mood.

“You know,” she ran her left hand over his chest, “you’re going to get there. You’ll be back in the ring and they’ll be cheering twice as loudly.”

Phinn sighed, winced, and said, “I wish I could believe that right now. But I just feel broken. I feel like a man who tried something incredible and failed magnificently.”

Charity continued to stroke his hair as she said, “You’re not a failure, Phinn. It’s not your failing that the ropes broke. It was a terrible accident.”

“It’s my circus,” he argued. “Every bit of it is my responsibility. If they fly, it’s my success. If they fall, if any one of them is hurt, it’s my failure. I asked them to leave their lives behind to join my circus. The least I can do is keep them safe.”

“But you have!” Charity countered. “You have kept all of them safe. It was just an accident. Anyone could’ve been in those ropes.”

“Exactly,” Phinn stated.

Charity thought about Phillip and his decision to give in to Peter Murray and the Board of Trade. Per the newspapers from the past few days, the circus simply wasn’t the same without the aerialists. The critics knew it. She was sure Phillip knew it. Now she wondered if that’s what her husband actually wanted—to ground the circus. But even if it was, she still refused to be the one to tell him what Phillip had done. Then, she felt a bit two-faced, considering her own secret that she was harboring from him.

Leaning in to kiss him just behind his left ear, Charity said, “Let it go for tonight, Phinn. You can’t change what happened, and you can worry about what to do about it tomorrow. For now, just be with me.”

Shifting in the bed and wincing again, he said, “I would love nothing more than to _be_ with you, Charity, but life has seen fit to deny me of that, as well.”

Understanding his meaning, Charity kissed him behind the ear again and softly said, “Time, Phinn. We just need time.”

He sighed, but she could feel his impatience. Phineas Taylor Barnum had never been one to be told to wait. He was a force, a man in constant motion, and she could nearly feel the hum of impatience in him. She closed her eyes and suddenly remembered the night after his first performance to a sold out circus crowd. That night, he had taken her with a fierce passion, with the driving desire of a man with a million dreams and not enough lifetimes to see them all brought to fruition. That night was the perfect example of why she tolerated his crazy ideas, his grandiose plans, and his constant risk-taking. He always came back to her. Phinn could fly far away, chasing a dream, and whether he soared to the sky or crashed, he would always land back in her arms. And when he came back to her, he always left her breathless.

So she held him in her arms and sang softly to him:

_However big, however small_

_Let me be part of it all_

_Share your dreams with me_

_You may be right, you may be wrong_

_But say that you'll bring me along_

She sang to him until he could no longer stay upright, and then she helped him lie down. Charity fell asleep curled up beside him, with her hand resting so she could feel his heartbeat, the rest of the world momentarily forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. I've been in tech week opening a show for the past few days.
> 
> I also wanted to share...I fell in a show. That's why it's personal. I had a pulley that was incorrectly weighted fail, and I fell about 17 feet. Broke my heel bone (one of the hardest bones to break) and compressed several vertebra in my lower back. I have never been the same since. Luckily, it wasn't from a higher distance or I might've ended up like Phinn here. Either way, it was a defining moment.

* * *

 

Over the next few days, the circus performers came in groups of twos and threes to visit their Ringmaster. Lettie was the first and the most eager. She had been too upset to visit the hospital again after the first morning, when the entire cast came just after the accident. Some of the hospital staff had said a few nasty things, and Lettie had explained to Charity and Phillip that she didn't want to come back and risk "punchin' one of them in their mouth." The others had followed her lead, as they tended to do, and stayed away from the hospital.

Now, most of them came and expressed their joy that Phinn was home and doing relatively well. One by one, they came through Charity and Phinn's bedroom, from Fedor, who was billed as "Dog Boy," to Chang, Eng, and the jugglers Carlos, Stanley, and Rose. Vasily ducked his way through every doorframe and expressed his eagerness for the Ringmaster to return in his thick, Slavic accent. Even O'Malley came, his hat in his hand. He'd never been one for much emotion, but he was clearly sincere in his happiness that Phinn was alive.

Finally, a week and a day after he had confessed to Charity that he was giving in to Peter Murray, Phillip came to visit. Anne was with him, along with the Albino twins. Charity welcomed them into her house. She was finally able to tell Lara and Mara apart, although it had taken the better part of two years. Lara was much more outgoing than her sister, usually letting her nearly white hair hang loose, like a feathery cloud. She also rejected most wardrobe conventions of the day, preferring to sheer the sleeves off of her dresses and cut them short. Mara, on the other hand, pinned her hair up when not performing and had gladly received a handful of Charity's old dresses to wear. They were both from Brazil, which was the homeland of many of the circus' performers, and they both spoke with rolling, Portuguese accents.

Charity escorted all of them to the bedroom, which she'd been keeping immaculate on account of all the visitors. Phinn was in bed, propped up by all the pillows they owned. His color wasn't bad, but the continued confinement to the bed was making him more frail by the week. Charity was concerned that he wasn't eating well, although she refused to let the cast see her worry.

She put on a bright smile and said, "Phinn! You have a few more visitors!"

She had helped him dress in dark gray shirt that morning, so he would be presentable for company, and helped him comb his flyaway hair. Pants were still not possible, with the pain and lack of mobility, so she made sure he was covered by the quilts. The small group entered the bedroom.

"P.T." Phillip nodded along with his greeting.

"Phillip." Phinn returned. He tried to smile broadly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Charity smiled brightly enough for her husband and herself and said, "We're so glad you could finally come."

Mara presented fresh flowers and said, "We've missed you greatly, Ringmaster."

"Yes," Lara added with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "You've been gone so long, Mr. Phillip seems to think he's in charge."

Charity wasn't exactly sure if she was teasing, or implying truth. Excusing herself, she went to fetch a vase for the flowers.

She was gone only a few minutes when she heard what sounded like yelling. She hurried back with the flowers arranged in the vase to find Phinn staring Phillip down, his expression livid. Anne stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest. The twins had retreated to the corner. Phillip was holding Phinn's angry gaze and Charity was certain, if her husband was mobile, they would be fighting. She set the flowers on the windowsill and noted Anne looked equally upset.

"How long have Anne and the others not been performing?" Phinn demanded.

Phillip sighed, "Just over a week."

"A week!" Phinn looked ready to climb out of the bed.

Charity crossed between them and said, "I don't think…"

"Why didn't you tell him?" Phillip turned suddenly and accosted Charity.

Her demeanor immediately switched from peacemaking to anger. She knew exactly what they were fighting about, and she had warned Phillip. She returned, "Me? I distinctly remember telling you that if  _you_  made this decision,  _you_  would be the one to tell your partner!"

"You were angry at the time!" Phillip defended himself. "I didn't think you actually meant…"

"Of course I meant it!" Charity argued.

"So you kept what's been going on at the circus a secret from him?"

"I do  _not_  keep secrets from my husband!" Charity snapped. "But this was not my decision and therefore not my news to communicate!"

"No secrets?" Phillip threw back as his expression darkened. "For that to be true, I think you have something you need to share with  _your husband_."

Charity felt like he'd punched her in the gut. She'd never seen Phillip be so heartless. In the next moment, his expression changed, and she could see him instantly regret betraying her secret in such a heartless way. She turned back to Phinn, who was staring at both of them in anger and confusion.

"Stop it!" He ordered, his voice louder and stronger than Charity had heard since his fall. "Both of you! The  _only_  thing I'm holding onto right now is the thought that the two of you are keeping things going, that the circus won't die with me! That it's not falling apart as badly as I am, so…" His voice cracked, and he looked away.

Charity could see how hard he was struggling to keep his composure, and she immediately hated herself for picking a fight with Phillip rather than just talking to her husband. Then she simultaneously hated Phillip for not fighting for the circus, for  _their_  circus. Mostly, she hated to see Phinn lose his composure, because it simply wasn't him.

Anne, in a moment of great wisdom, turned and said, "Charity. Lara, Mara. Let's give the boys a few minutes to talk this out." She turned and headed into the hallway outside the bedroom door.

They all followed, because Lara and Mara were clearly uncomfortable and Charity needed to collect her thoughts.

Once in the hallway, Anne pulled the bedroom door shut and said, "I'm no happier about this decision than you, Charity. I think Phillip's wrong. I think we should fight Peter Murray and the Board of Trade. But...I also have to live with him."

Charity nodded. "I know what that's like."

Anne dropped her head. "He sees it as prudent. And I get it. He doesn't want to lose everything and he thinks we might be able to put the acts back in after a while when it all blows over, but...I think once people give up on us, they won't come back. And...I love flying. I've never known anything else. He doesn't understand...it's not just a job. It's...me."

Lara took her sister's hand and said, "The more we learn, the more it is us, too."

Charity understood in a much more personal way than she could say. Instead, she offered, "The two of them usually come to their senses, together. Let's not give up on them, yet."

Anne nodded and the twins tried to smile.

A minute later, the bedroom door opened and Phillip emerged. He glanced at Anne, then said to Charity, "Anne and I should go. We've caused enough trouble for today. I'll see you at the show tonight?"

Surprised at his formal tone, Charity just nodded. She said goodbye to the others and saw them out the door of the apartment. Then, she returned to Phinn.

He was staring out the window, his expression pensive and a little lost. Charity crossed to the bed and crawled into it next to him. The girls were at the park with their nanny and would be occupied for at least another hour. Charity laid her head on her husband's shoulder and stayed that way, without speaking, for several minutes.

Suddenly, he said, "Charity…" She could hear him struggling. "If there's someone else...I want you to know, I understand. It's been more than a month and this may be the new state of existence for me, so as much as it hurts, I understand if…"

"Phinn!" She sat up and cut him off. "What are you talking about?"

He stated, "Phillip implied you have a secret, from me." He swallowed hard. "And if it's someone else...I understand."

Charity felt her stomach turn, but her guilt at having a secret was overwhelmed by heartache as she looked into Phinn's eyes. He looked so lost, so ready to break at any moment, that it made her ache. Phinn's eyes were so honest, sometimes her heart could barely take it.

"Phinn," she said softly, taking his hand, "I could never, ever imagine loving anyone but you. I have loved you since I was twelve years old and first knew what love was. You are everything. My heart beats with yours. When you fell, I thought I'd die." She struggled, her voice catching at the memory. "I thought to myself, 'I'll never be able to bear it if he's gone. I'll die with him.' You are half of who I am. You are part of me and you are woven into every part of my life. I see you in the girls, in the show, even in the city itself."

He still looked hurt as he said, "Still, I would understand if…"

"Phinn," she stopped him again. She put her hands on either side of his face and said, "You were the first boy to make my heart flutter. My first kiss. The first and only man I've ever loved. You are the only man I've ever been with."

He glanced away. "Not for lack of other options, I'm sure." His tone was sad, rather than angry or flippant.

Charity made him look in her eyes again. "You are not a consolation prize, Phinn. You are strong and beautiful, even now. I chose you. I choose you."

Before he could argue, she leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. At first, he was resistant, but after a minute he gave in to her. Charity deepened the kiss and he leaned further back into the pillows. She supported her weight with one hand and ran the other up into his hair. More memories flickered through her mind—stealing kisses from him between acts at the show, making love under their quilts on lazy mornings as the sun rose in the sky, and then falling back to sleep still wrapped in each other. The time a rooftop picnic had ended with them naked in the moonlight, and Charity was sure the stars had spun that night. Kissing Phinn was loaded with so many things. His touch unlocked a vault of memories that were familiar, intimate, and sacred. She needed him to understand that she couldn't imagine letting anyone else touch her that way. So she kissed him until she was breathless and had to pull away.

He kept his eyes closed and his chest rose and fell heavily. Charity kissed him softly on the cheek.

When he opened his eyes, he looked at her hungrily said, "I want to be well, for you."

She kissed his cheek again and said, "You will."

She sat back just as he asked, "So then, what is this secret?"

Charity felt her stomach twist again. She hesitated. "It's something about me. Only me. No one else. And I want to tell you about it, Phinn. But not yet. I just need a little more time and then, when I can  _show_  you, I will. I promise."

He nodded, but did not look entirely at ease.

* * *

Much later that night, Phillip stood backstage at the circus staring at Anne. She was dressed in a worn, faded blue dress and her hair was haphazardly tied back. She looked tired, even though she'd only been sitting backstage while those who were allowed, performed. The other aerialists had stopped coming, choosing to stay in the on-site housing Phillip had invested in building once they'd secured the land for the tent, or in their own apartments. Anne, however, sat backstage every night and stared him down every time he came offstage.

"Anne, it's late. Can we go home and not argue anymore today?" Phillip nearly begged, loosening his cravat and draping his Ringmaster coat over a ladder.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "We can go home. We can not argue. But that won't make me any less mad at you."

Phillip sighed heavily. "What else do you want me to say? If I put you back in the trapeze, we could end up without a show at all. Everyone could be on the street. Is that what you want?"

Anne's eyes flashed agrily. She stood up and pointed at him. "Don't put this on me! Don't act like I'm the one demanding terrible things of you!"

Phillip threw up his hands. "Then what would you have me do?"

She took a step toward him. "Fight for it, Phillip! Fight for me!"

"How?" he asked weakly.

She held his gaze. "Make Peter Murray file for an injunction! He's closed our case now, I'm sure. He'll have to open a new one if he wants to investigate us further. So make him do so.  _Make_  him file an injunction, and refuse to take out the aerialists unless he does it! Then, he'll have to  _prove_  we're a danger to the public to a judge! He was threatening you, Phillip. He was pushing for what he wanted, hoping we would respond out of fear, and that's  _exactly_  what we've done. But I'm not afraid of Peter Murray! And you shouldn't be either!"

Phillip slowly unbuttoned his vest, simultaneously loving and hating this passionate, stubborn part of her personality. "Anne, if we lose...we would lose everything."

She stepped in closer to him. "You don't know that. We would be appealing to a judge, not Peter Murray and his Board of Trade. We may only end up right where we are now."

Phillip hung his vest over the ladder next to his coat. "That is an incredible risk, Anne."

She crossed her arms again. "There was a time when you weren't afraid of risk."

He shook his head. "If you'll recall, it was P.T. who took the risks. I'm the one who put all my money in the bank, remember?"

Anne looked him over. "You walked away from your family to be his partner. That was an incredible risk."

He chuckled darkly. "Maybe."

She stepped in even closer and put her right hand on the side of his face. She spoke more softly, "You took a risk with me, Phillip."

He put his palm on her cheek and said gently, "You are the surest bet I've ever made, Anne Carlyle. I have never been uncertain about you."

She kissed him fiercely.

When they broke apart, she whispered, "Then bet on me again. Let me fly, Phillip. Bet on me again."

* * *

The following Thursday morning, the whole cast was gathered in the circus tent for a special called rehearsal. Phillip had asked all of them to come and try to work through their opening number to make it more dynamic. He appreciated that, so far, the cast was trying, even though he could feel the the aerialists' frustration at being grounded.

Ajani, who came from Nigeria and was a powerful acrobat, had also proven himself an adept choreographer. He and P.T. had put together the show's first musical numbers back in the old building in the city, as well as the opening number for the new tent. Phillip was incredibly glad to have him now. Ajani was tall and lean, with colorful tattoos and long, dredded locks of hair. With a rolling accent, he explained what he wanted each performer to do. They followed along, as did the musicians, who had grown in number since the early days.

The opening number at P.T. Barnum's Circus had become their statement piece. Children left the tent at night singing the lyrics. Adults found themselves tapping their feet to the rhythm days after attending. It was a song P.T. had written with Gus, the composer and conductor he and Phillip had hired when they bought the tent. This song had always felt like an anthem to their success. Phillip usually felt an incredible rush every time he was able to perform it. Now, however, he was in the ring six nights a week. Another change that had come along with the tent two years ago was the decision for the circus to be "dark" one night a week. P.T. had explained that, with such a large facility, they needed a night for maintenance, thorough cleaning, and rest. Phillip had wholeheartedly supported the decision. Now, he was especially glad for it.

Phillip was exhausted. He was trying to perform with twice the usual energy to make up for P.T.'s absence, the loss of the aerialists, and the skepticism of the critics that the show could go on without P.T. Barnum. Before the accident, Phillip had felt confident in his role as Second Ringmaster. Now, he felt like P.T.'s shoes were far too big for him to ever fill. And all of it was exhausting.

_You need to find someone to train. I've told you before. The future of the show is in the performers you train, in the next generation. Including the part of Ringmaster._

Anne had said all that more than once, but Phillip generally brushed her off. He didn't feel old enough to need a "next generation." Until today. As they ran through the opening number once again, he felt every ache, every strain, and every hour he hadn't slept over the past five weeks.

Once the number was complete, Phillip met Ajani's eyes and said, "Take a break, everyone. Come back in ten."

As the cast sat down or shuffled outside to the drinking water pump, Phillip noticed someone sitting in the shadows by the side entrance. He crossed the space, not sure who would be here on a Thursday morning. He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly noon—not so much morning, but far too early for audience to arrive.

"Good morning!" Phillip said with a smile.

The person stood, and he realized she was a woman. She was tall, and she could easily meet Phillip's eyes. She was wearing a long overcoat that might've been a man's and she had a satchel with her. Her hair was darkest brown and tied back at the nape of her neck in a loose bun, however some curls had escaped and brushed her neck and chin. She was slender, but her frame was more imposing than delicate. When he got close enough, Phillip could see that she had striking, deep blue eyes framed with thick lashes and set in a face with high cheekbones and a strong nose and jaw.

Phillip gave her a nod and said, "I'm Phillip Carlyle."

She stuck out her hand, more like a gentleman than a lady, and smiled an impish grin. "And I am Emaline Semanovka."

Phillip returned her smile and said, "The show doesn't start until eight, but we love your enthusiasm. Can I leave you a ticket at will-call?"

She shook her head.

"No?" Phillip questioned.

"I've been here every night for the past year," she stated bluntly.

" _Every_  night?"

"Every night."

Phillip decided she might look slightly familiar. He asked, "But you don't need a ticket for tonight?"

She shook her head. "No. I want to audition."

He was taken aback. They hadn't posted audition flyers lately. "Audition?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"For what?"

She held his eyes and without flinching said, "Ringmaster."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit. I'm in the middle of a show and some crazy work stuff.
> 
> In this chapter, I reference a musical number. In the movie, we all know that the music and choreography are modern, in spite of the time frame. It was a creative choice in the film. I wanted to reference the music as we know it, while accepting that in the mid-1800s, the only way to have live music was with musicians. Hopefully we can all use some creative license and go with it. ;-)

* * *

 

Phillip laughed out loud. In hindsight, he could see how rude it was, but he couldn't help himself. In the moment, fatigue combined with the stress of the past few weeks came together to make the idea of the woman in front of him acting as Ringmaster so preposterous that he laughed.

She stared him down, not amused and not deterred.

He cleared his throat and said, "We already have a Ringmaster. In fact, we have two, and it's not a position we're looking to fill.

She didn't waver. "But Mr. Barnum is incapacitated, is he not? Possibly for good?"

Phillip was immediately defensive. "P.T. Barnum will be back in this ring sooner than anyone expects!"

The woman raised an eyebrow in an expression that was so reminiscent of P.T. Barnum that Phillip shook his head. Then he repeated, "We're not looking for a Ringmaster."

She smiled. "Sometimes, you don't know what you're lookin' for until it shows up on your doorstep."

Phillip shook his head. "What?"

She waved him off. "Nothing. Something my mum used to say, I think to make me feel better about being left on her doorstep."

In spite of himself, Phillip was intrigued. "What was your name again?"

"Emaline," she said proudly. "Emaline Semanovka. You can call me Ema."

"And what makes you think you're qualified to be the Ringmaster of the greatest show in New York City?"

She tipped her head and smiled a wide, disarming smile. "Because...I am."

Phillip laughed again. It felt good to laugh, he decided, even if it was at such lunacy. Perhaps because he was so very tired, or perhaps because he simply needed a mental break from trying to save the circus, he said, "Why don't you audition now? We're rehearsing the opening act. Show us what you've got."

He expected her to reconsider, but Ema nodded without hesitation.

Phillip addressed the performers, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have someone who would like to try on the role of Ringmaster. Since she's come all this way, let's humor her. If you'll take first positions."

Some of them seemed amused, others annoyed. But they complied.

Ema took her position at the side of the ring. She dropped her cloak, revealing black stockings, black shorts no lady would be seen in in pubic, and heeled black shoes. She had obviously done her best to mimic the Ringmaster attire, because she also wore a white, collared leotard overlaid with a fitted vest that was embellished with gold, much like P.T. and Phillip's. She had also managed to find a topcoat in bright red and tailored it to fit her slim physique. She opened the satchel she was carrying, pulled out a black top hat, and slipped it confidently on her head. She walked over to where Phillip had laid down his cane and brazenly seized it.

Looking at the musicians, she aimed the cane at them and said. "Play it."

When they glanced his way, Phillip nodded, if only out of absolute curiosity.

As the musicians began to play, the circus vibrated with the fullness of it. The cast began to sing, and Ema took the stage. Phillip's eyes widened as she hit every one of the Ringmaster cues. She stopped on the right marks, turned with precision, and tipped her hat just so. He would've sworn she was P.T., were it not for the long legs clad only in stockings and the knot of hair at her neck.

And then, in a deep mezzo-alto, she sang the song that defined the circus:

_Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for…_

She kept going, and even the other performers cut their eyes toward her while they sang, in disbelief at what they were seeing. Phillip noticed that Lettie in particular was wide-eyed, as though she'd finally seen something stranger than herself. For the next five minutes, Ema was a sight to behold. She never faltered, throwing her arms open as though the audience was actually present and cheering her on.

When the song finally ended, she pulled off her hat and stood, waiting. Phillip had no idea what to say.

Lettie spoke up, "How the hell did you learn all that?"

Ema tipped her head. "Like I said. I've been to every show."

Phillip stared at her. The circus was full of incredible performers, each excellent in their own craft. Occasionally, someone had expressed interest in understudying the Ringmaster role, but Phillip believed that it took a special kind of confidence, a willingness to put oneself on the line for the whole show. Whatever happened, the night rose or fell in the Ringmaster's hands. Phillip had never seen anyone but P.T. step into the ring with the charisma and the unabashed confidence that Ema displayed. And there was something in her face, in her eyes, a spark that he'd only ever seen, to this point, in P.T. Barnum.

He thought all of those things to himself. What he said was to Ema was, "You really did learn all of it."

"So, can I help you?"

Phillip chuckled. "No one steps into the ring wearing the jacket unless P.T. Barnum gives his blessing."

Ema stepped out of the ring and crossed to Phillip. She tossed his cane back to him and said, "Then let him watch me."

Phillip grew suddenly angry. "In case you don't remember, he's at home, stuck in a bed, wishing he could be doing what you are making an  _attempt_  to do right now."

"Attempt?" Ema raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly," Phillip squared off with her. "You made an attempt."

She stepped in closer. "Don't count me out because I'm a woman, Phillip Carlyle. Give me a chance. Learn to see things from the other side."

Phillip hesitated at her choice of words and then said, "I'm not hiring another Ringmaster. Period."

Ema crossed her arms over her chest.

"But," he conceded, "we can use another dancer if you're interested."

She stared him down. Finally, she stated, "Fine. But you'll come around."

Phillip sighed. "You can work with Lara and Mara this afternoon. Maybe we can put you in by next week."

"Saturday," Emaline stated. "I'll be ready Saturday."

Phillip didn't have the energy to argue.

* * *

Much later that night, Charity was in the tent alone once again. It was quiet, the antithesis of what most people looked for when entering the cavernous space. Charity, however, relished it. She was in the lyra again, her body stretched gracefully around the cool metal hoop. She had recently learned how to invert herself into a full split and hold herself there, hands free. She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of suspension.

Suddenly, a voice said, "Point your toes harder. It'll make your legs looks longer."

Charity's eyes flew open.

"Not that you need longer legs. You've got me beat on that score."

It was Anne. Even upside down, Charity saw her clearly. She was standing just inside the center ring, staring at the lyra. Charity pulled herself upright and dropped from the apparatus.

Coming closer, Anne said, "Don't be mad. Phillip told me you might be here."

Charity huffed, "I knew he could never keep a secret."

Gently, Anne said, "He didn't want to tell me. But all that talk about you having a secret from P.T….it made me worried. Truly worried. He was defending you, that's all."

Charity begrudgingly understood. "It's all right. A part of me really wanted you to know, but a part of me still feels so silly for even attempting something like this. I'm a wife and a mother. Society has almost accepted me as a lady. And ladies don't do  _this_."

Anne scoffed, "I'm a wife. I hope to be a mother. I'd like to think I'm a lady. And yet I could never give this up. Dance is beautiful. Dancing in the air is like nothing else in the world. Maybe people like us can help the world to redefine what it means to be a 'lady.'"

Charity nodded without speaking.

Anne came closer, spun the lyra with her hand, and asked, "Why don't you want P.T. to know? I mean, I get hiding from this critical society, but why him? You know how much he loves this place, and everything about it. Wouldn't he love to know you not only support him, but you want a part of it?"

Charity shook her head. "That's precisely why I haven't told him. I don't want him to think I  _need_  a part in it. I'm not even very good. He would feel compelled to put me in because I'm his wife, and I'm not sure I want that."

Anne tipped her head and said, "I would think, if I know P.T. Barnum at all, he would want what makes  _you_  happy."

Charity looked away. "Maybe."

"I won't tell you what to do. You have to tell him when you're ready," Anne stated. "But you do look lovely up there."

Charity smiled.

"Come here," Anne instructed. "Let me show you some partner stuff."

Charity happily complied.

* * *

The next day, Charity was curled up next to Phinn in their bed again. She'd spent more time in the bed over the past few weeks then she had in all the years she'd been married, but the bed was where Phinn lived now. So the bed was where she spent her time.

Margaret had come again that morning. She was gradually weaning him off the morphine. As expected, it was making for longer, more difficult days. Phinn was awake more often, as opposed to constantly napping from the medication. Charity was glad to have his attention, but his conversations took turns that sometimes scared her. He was starting to talk about his work in the past tense, with a quiet resolve that made her heart hurt. Margaret had succeeded that morning in having him sit upright, on his own, for much of the morning. He was healing, physically, his spirit seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.

It was nearly noon, now. Charity had a book open in her lap. Her left hand turned the pages while her right drew lazy circles on her husband's thigh. She was reading Caroline's schoolbook that Phinn had referenced when he was still in the hospital ward.

"You know," she mused aloud, "I could say you've borrowed more from this Hamilton character than just his love letter to his wife."

"Meaning?" Phinn asked offhandedly.

"Headstrong. Creative. Determined to a fault. Constantly pushing for his way and wearing people down because he simply refused to be told no. Pioneering new ideas for which he received constant criticism, but forging ahead anyway. Sound familiar?"

"Not in the least." Phinn didn't look up from his newspaper.

Charity laughed. "You're cut from the same mold. He wrote entire new systems of government into existence. You have created an entirely new form of entertainment."

Still not looking up, he argued flatly, "Alexander Hamilton was unfaithful to his wife."

Charity leaned closer to him and said, "I'll gladly accept that difference."

She started to go back to her reading, when Phinn folded his newspaper with a heavy sigh. He stared across the room at the open window pensively.

"What is it, Phinn?" Charity asked softly.

He answered tightly, "It's the words. I can't make sense of them. I feel like a child trying to work through a grammar school book. Something in my head just isn't right."

Charity laid down her book and turned to face her husband. She brushed her hand through his hair and said, "You hit your head very hard. I saw the wound. I can feel the scar. The doctor said you might...struggle."

Phinn worked his jaw, and she could see the tension in him. "I know. But I still can't accept it. I have my memories, which he was worried about. I can see. I can hear. I can speak. But I cannot make sense of words on the page."

"Phinn." She steadied him by looking in his eyes. "It's not even been six weeks. You're a miracle, even now. I will love you if you never read another word."

He didn't argue, but she could tell it wasn't enough.

* * *

True to her word, Ema went on with the cast on Saturday night. Phillip had begrudgingly accepted that she knew every bit of the opening number. He wasn't sure why he found her so threatening, and he was afraid to explore the answer. Anne, however, was not.

"There is something about her," she said as she dressed for bed that night.

"What do you mean?" Phillip asked wearily as he buttoned his nightclothes.

"I mean, you can't take your eyes off of her," she explained. "She radiates energy."

"All the dancers have to be that way," Phillip argued. "It's what makes our show great."

Anne dropped her dress to the floor and faced him in just her undergarments. "True. They're all good performers. But when they're in their own element, in their specialty, they shine differently."

"So Ema's a good dancer. We need those."

Anne pulled off her undergarments, and Phillip couldn't help but wonder if she chose to argue with him while undressing because she knew she would always have the upper hand. He still flushed at her curves, at the swell of her breasts and strength in her thighs.

She smirked as he stared openly and said, "She's more than a dancer. And you know it. The place where she shines in the center of the ring."

Phillip made himself look away. "I'm not letting her run the show. Not without P.T.'s blessing."

Anne crossed the room, still naked, kissed him full on the mouth, and asked, "But you'll let him see her? When he can?"

Phillip was powerless to say no.

* * *

"I'm going to have Phillip overturn his decision about the aerialists."

Charity froze. It was Monday afternoon, and she was helping Phinn to bathe. He still couldn't lower himself into the tub, so she continued to do what Margaret had shown her in the hospital. After helping him out of his clothes, she would use a basin with warm water and several cloths to bathe him. Although it was still a sign of his infirmity, Charity secretly enjoyed the process. It was intimate in a way they were usually too rushed in life to appreciate. Now, he was forced to be still and she found herself discovering him anew, although she tried to keep it from turning sexual. She didn't want to push him and hinder his recovery.

"You're going to what?" she stopped working the cloth over his chest.

"I'm going to have Phillip put the aerialists back in."

Charity felt a stab of either fear or excitement. She couldn't pinpoint which it was. "And what if he disagrees?"

Phinn sighed. "I have to do something. I can't lie here and let it all go to hell. I have to be useful at...something."

Charity continued running the cloth over his chest. "I've asked you not to talk that way, Phinn. You are more than 'useful' already."

"At what?" he scoffed. "Giving you more chores to do?"

She smiled. "This isn't a chore. This is me getting to touch you, and that is precious to me, considering how close I came to burying you."

He flinched, and she realized once again that he wasn't as resilient as he'd always pretended to be. Phinn understood how very close to death he'd been.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It's not to be taken lightly."

He shook his head. "It's all right. Some days...I think perhaps I should have…"

Charity stopped him. "Please don't say things like that, Phinn. Please? I know it's hard. I know you want to jump out of this bed. But...please?"

He looked in her eyes, and she could see the turmoil in his.

"Tell me more about the aerialists. How do we convince Phillip?"

He finally smiled just a little. "We don't give him a choice. I'll tell him it's my decision. And I'll accept the consequences. If they shut us down, he can have the show and start up again somewhere with less restrictions."

Charity knew that prudence would dictate that they protect their livelihood and take the safer road, but she didn't marry P.T. Barnum for the safe road. She married him for the adventure.

So she smiled and continued to work the cloth over his body. He closed his eyes, at her mercy. She made note of how the bruises on his torso were now faded to yellow and brown. His right leg was mottled the same colors, with dark, red scars on his thigh and shin. He was thinner, paler, but still the man she loved.

After she felt she'd done a thorough job on most of his body, she gently trailed the cloth over his stomach and down to his groin. He shifted, and she knew her touch affected him. She was glad to know his broken body still responded to her touch, but she also knew he wasn't ready for lovemaking. Yet she certainly wasn't going to allow anyone else to bathe him. So Charity tried to be platonic in her task.

Still, after a minute or two he said, "That's enough."

She understood.

"Chairy?" he said as she put the cloths back in the basin. "Come lay with me."

She chuckled. "It's mid-afternoon. The girls will be knocking soon."

He reached out and took her hand. "Take this off," he indicated her dress, "and lay with me."

"Phinn, I don't think…"

"Just...lay with me. Nothing more. I just want to feel your skin. Please?"

_Damn you, Phinn._

She couldn't say no to his eyes. Not when he'd been so despondent lately and was finally showing signs of his old spark. Not when he'd just decided to tell the Board of Trade exactly where they could shove their decision. Because Charity, in spite of her sweet demeanor, had a spark of defiance herself. It was what had made her sneak out of her parents' house to go exploring when they were children. It was what made her run out of their house and not look back when he'd returned as man. She loved Phinn for bringing out the spark in her. So she couldn't say no to him.

Dropping her dress to the floor, she stripped off her undergarments and climbed into the bed. Pulling the quilt over their bodies, she slid next to Phinn, skin on skin. He was still warm, from the water, and she relished it. They hadn't been this way in weeks, and even knowing things could go no further, she felt a rush of pleasure. He sighed, and she sensed his contentment.

Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, for a moment, they were still.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theresa M...so sorry I didn't make your birthday. I was out of town for a work trip. But this chapter is longer...so there's that. Happy Birthday!!! ;-)
> 
> Enjoy and send me all your written thoughts, all of you, because they are awesome.

* * *

 

"Pull yourself up. Now cross your legs around the rope and pull yourself up again."

Anne was instructing Charity, who hung upside down from the lyra. It was Monday, one week later. Now that Anne knew her secret, Charity was more than willing to accept help. She found that she and the younger woman were growing closer simply by having a shared interest. Charity had always liked Anne, but the age difference of fifteen years had kept them from really bonding until now. It was good, Charity felt, for them to finally connect, considering how much their husbands relied on one another.

"When I first saw you do this, it looked so easy," Charity said while hoisting herself up the strap that hung the lyra.

"Not so easy, is it?" Anne replied with a smile.

Charity shook her head.

"It's been over an hour. You should come down." Anne glanced at the old pocket watch she'd swiped from Phillip when his father gifted him a new one for his birthday.

Charity untangled herself and dropped gracefully to the sawdust-covered floor.

Leaning back into the hoop herself for a moment, Anne asked, "Don't you worry that P.T. is going to finally question where you are at night?"

Charity smiled wistfully. "One of the most wonderful, most dangerous things about Phinn is that he trusts me unconditionally. Although lately...he's so sound asleep he doesn't notice I'm gone."

Anne looked away, pensive. "I know injuries like his...they take time. But do you think he's still getting better?"

Charity sat down on the curved wooden beam that formed one of the rings on the circus floor. She picked up one of her shoes, sensible black boots, and said, "I refuse to believe anything else."

"How long has it been now?"

Charity laced her shoes. "Six weeks."

"Looking at Phillip, I believe it." Anne sighed.

Charity stood, then pulled on and fastened the long coat she wore to hide her leotard when she was outside the circus tent. "I really appreciate how he's taken on all these shows. I know it's not easy."

Anne pulled the lyra to the side and tied it off using thick ropes. She called across the space, "I alternate between compassion for how hard he's working to save the circus and frustration because he's taken away the one thing I love almost as much as him."

"He thinks he's doing the right thing," Charity offered.

"I know." Anne pulled on a coat as well.

It was mid-September now, and the nights were cool. She looked away for a moment, and Charity could tell she was struggling with something.

Anne met her eyes again and said, "Have you met Ema? The new girl?"

"The dancer? The tall one with dark hair? Yes," Charity answered.

Anne hesitated. "She auditioned to be Ringmaster."

Charity stared at Anne, not sure she'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"When she first came in, she told Phillip she wanted to be Ringmaster. And I have to say, she was pretty damn good."

Charity smiled. "Something about that makes me very happy."

Anne laughed. "I know. But Phillip wasn't thrilled. Neither were a lot of the others. It's funny how we work in a place that intentionally throws off social conventions, but we are still compelled to hold to certain social conventions."

Charity thought it over. "It may not just be social convention. It may be more about their loyalty to Phinn and Phillip."

"True," Anne conceded. "Very true."

They started toward the exit.

"Ema wants Phillip to let P.T. watch her. As Ringmaster," Anne added softly.

Charity thought it over. "Two months ago, I would've asked him myself. But now...I think he's already struggling with not being able to perform. He's afraid he's done. For good. So I don't know what he would say…"

Anne glanced over with compassion. "I figured. But maybe when he's back on his feet...because she really is good."

Charity laughed softly. "I bet she is. I really bet she is..."

* * *

The next afternoon, Phillip sat in the master bedroom in the Barnum's apartment. This place, unlike their oversized mansion in the woods, overlooked the bustling city. It wasn't as far uptown as the Carlyle family home, but it was only about a fifteen minute walk to the newly established park in the center of city. Phillip was glad the Barnum's had chosen to live here. It suited them, he felt, far better than the stuffy houses by the shore.

"Phillip." P.T. addressed him from the bed, as had become standard.

Still, Phillip wasn't used to it. When the two men typically met to discuss circus business, they either holed themselves up in the office backstage or went to the bar. Either way, P.T. usually alternated between stillness, deep in focus, or buzzing about the space. To see him reclined in the bed would never be normal.

"Yes?" Phillip returned.

P.T. stared him down intently. "I want you to put the aerialists back in the show."

Phillip stared back. The clocked over the fireplace ticked. Neither man moved.

"What?" Phillip finally asked, albeit rhetorically. He'd heard every word.

"Put the aerialists back in the show, Phillip. We both know how lacking it is without them. In the beginning, they were a surprise. I imagined my show to be more about the unusual, the macabre. But Anne and W.D. stole the crowd with their first show. Now, we just can't do it without them. All of them."

"And what about Peter Murray and the Board of Trade?" Phillip asked curtly.

P.T. leveled his eyes at Phillip. His expression was intense, like the night they'd first become partners. "Peter Murray does not make decisions for the Board. His only job is to investigate. If they want to force us to change our show, they need to file an injunction and go before a judge."

Phillip wondered if Anne and Charity had been pushing their ideas onto P.T.

"When someone tries to run you over, Phillip, it's best not to lie down in the street for them. Make it harder. Fight."

Phillip cleared his throat. "I assume Anne and Charity have been making their case for all this?"

"Actually, no," P.T. stated. "Charity answered a few questions, but this is what I think is best."

"And what about what I think is best?"

"Phillip, can you really tell me you think the circus is just as good the way it is now? Do you sincerely believe all the aerialists should be grounded and, eventually, out of their jobs?"

It suddenly occurred to Phillip what the finances of it all meant. They couldn't keep paying the salaries of performers who don't perform. They would have to fill the show with other acts. He thought about Lara and Mara and how they were just learning trapeze. He thought about Amani and Jacinta, who specialized in Spanish web, or rope. He thought about Constance, who was from Brazil like the twins and who could hang by her teeth. He thought about Talia and Jon, tightrope walkers from Italy. Finally, he thought about Anne and even Charity. The show would eventually lose most of them if things continued they way they were heading.

He said weakly, "I just don't want to lose everything we've worked for."

With a tilt of his head, PT. returned, "We've lost everything before, and look at us now."

"And the reason you could start over was because of me." Phillip couldn't help making the point that his frugality had saved them.

P.T. was silent for a moment, his piercing hazel eyes held Phillip's. His strong jaw was covered in rough stubble, but it was set. His hair, full of waves and even curls, wasn't neatly combed. However his presence still seemed to fill the room. "Your money saved us. I'll admit, you're a better financier than I ever was. But I know what the people want. I can sense it, and I think they'll support us in this."

Phillip scoffed. "The people don't make decisions. The Board of Trade does."

"No," P.T. argued, "the Board of Trade investigates public places and makes recommendations that must be upheld by a judge. They make suggestions about building codes and occupancy laws. But they can't technically force us to do anything on their own."

Phillip felt himself give in before he said a word. He was more practical, more responsible than P.T., but he loved the circus with his whole heart. And loved Anne. God, he loved her. So if it was time to fight for what she loved, he would do it.

"Allright." Phillip nodded. "The aerialists go back in tomorrow."

P.T. nodded as well, then asked, "Where's a couple of shot glasses when you need them?"

Surprised, Phillip asked, "Should you be…?"

"Life's too short for 'should you be.' Go get the scotch," P.T. ordered with a smirk.

Phillip complied.

* * *

Later that night, Phillip sat at the dinner table in his own apartment. He and Anne lived just north of the Barnum's. Their apartment was smaller, but he could catch a sliver of the park out the northwest window in their dining room on clear days. Now, the sun was setting behind the distant trees.

Anne came through the door a few minutes later, her arms laden with garment bags. "One person needs something mended, everyone needs something mended," she quipped. Then she dropped everything in the small foyer.

Phillip stood and greeted her with a kiss and a smile. "Why didn't you take it straight to the circus? Or have it delivered."

She shrugged. "I was raised to carry my own clothes. Didn't think of it until I was halfway up the stairs."

Phillip chuckled. Anne was forever practical. And strong. As much as he'd wished she'd gotten help with the clothes, he knew her arms could carry more than a few bags of costumes.

"I have news," he stated as she stripped off her coat.

"Can it wait until dinner? I'm starving."

Phillip shook his head. "No. But we can go to Russo's after I tell you."

Russo's was Anne's favorite Italian restaurant, on the corner about four blocks away. "Are we celebrating something?"

Phillip shrugged. "You might be."

Anne was suddenly curious.

He took a deep breath. "P.T. wants the aerialists back in the show...and I agreed. You go back in tomorrow night."

Anne's face registered surprised and then delight. She squealed and wrapped Phillip in a tight embrace. "I love you, Phillip Carlyle. For always taking a chance on me."

Into her thick hair, he whispered, "I think it's mostly you continuing to take a chance on me."

She pulled back and said, "We'll need a rehearsal in the morning. For everyone."

"I know," Phillip said heavily. He didn't share her enthusiasm.

"What's wrong now?" Anne put her arms loosely around his neck. "You have to stop worrying so much. We take risks. It's what we do."

Phillip looked away for a moment. "It's not just the circus, Anne. I worry about  _you_. My wife."

She forced him to meet her eyes. "I've done this all my life, Phillip. I know what I'm doing."

"I know….but….what if…"

There was silence.

"What?" Anne demanded.

"What if...you're pregnant? What if you should fall pregnant, and then with all the climbing and such…"

Anne stepped back. "First of all, I hate that phrase, 'Fall pregnant.' It sounds like I stumbled into a trap, unaware. I know what causes pregnancy. Second, Dr. Warshaw told me I could keep performing. I will know if I'm pregnant long before it would be dangerous."

Phillip didn't look convinced.

"He's a good doctor, Phillip. He saved P.T.'s life when everyone has said he should be dead."

Phillip sighed. "I know. But this  _you_."

Anne cocked her head. "I know you love P.T. every bit as much as me. It's not a secret, Phillip."

Phillip hated that she was right, but he was grateful she understood. He returned, "I don't want P.T. Barnum to bear my child, though. I draw the line there."

Anne laughed, throwing her head back in a way that made her look exquisite. So he kissed her neck, and then worked his way up to her lips.

When he finally pulled back, Anne still clung to him, and he could tell something was troubling her. He didn't push, though.

Eventually, she said, "It's been over a year, Phillip. We've been married fifteen months. Charity was pregnant within a month of her marriage. And then again three months after Caroline was born."

Phillip felt a weight in his gut. He had some of the same worries, but he hadn't wanted to put them on Anne.

Instead, he said, "We're not them, Anne. We spend most of our lives with them, but we are our own family. And we'll make ours in our own way."

Anne wrapped him a tight embrace, and he held her.

* * *

"Hey."

Charity turned, not used to being addressed as "Hey."

A tall woman with dark, curly hair was staring at her. Charity was still sitting on one of the bleacher seats in the circus tent. It was at least an hour past curtain call, but Caroline and Helen were playing "circus" in the empty rings. They were growing up so fast, Charity hated to stifle them when the urge to play came.

"Are you comin' to the bar with the rest of us?"

Charity recognized the woman now. It was Ema in her street clothes. And for Ema, the word "street" was especially appropriate. She wore trousers and a ladies blouse that was tied in the back, rather than neatly tucked. Her feet were shod in boots and she kept the trousers up with a pair of boys' suspenders. Her hair was tied back haphazardly and curls escaped everywhere. Her makeup was perfect, however. She'd removed the paint and glitter from the show, but her cheeks and eyes stood out beautifully. Her makeup reminded Charity more of art than vanity. She'd never seen Ema this close before, but her eyes were everything Anne had said they were—deepest blue, like an expensive doll rather than a woman.

"Are ya?"

Charity realized she hadn't answered. She shook her head. "No. I have to get the girls home." It was Thursday, and Caroline and Helen had school the next morning.

Ema glanced at them. "Ah yes. Caroline the dancer and Helen the artist. Who would expect different of Barnum kids."

Charity looked at Ema, surprised. "How do you know what they like to do?"

Ema smiled. I've been watchin' the show for over a year. And I read the gossip papers. Plus, people talk backstage. Don't worry, though. It's good things they're saying."

Charity could tell from the way she spoke that Ema had been raised lower class, probably on the Lower East Side, based on her name. It sounded Russian or Slavic. She didn't look Slavic, though.

Charity voiced her thoughts, "Where do you come from, Ema?"

Ema sat down on the bleachers as well. "Don't really know. My parents are Ukrainian, but I was left on their doorstep. Just a note that said my mother would lose her job if she kept me. Said my father never knew about me. So it's all pretty well a dead end on that score."

Charity could hear the hint of an accent as well. Perhaps Scottish. It was faint, but she knew that the working class neighborhoods were a melting pot of immigrants. "And what made you want to join the circus?"

Ema shrugged. "Same as the rest of 'em, I guess. A place to belong. Money in my pocket and food in my stomach. A home where no one spits on me and calls me 'bastard.'"

The last bit caught Charity off-guard. "Your parents called you that?"

Ema shook her head. "No. Place where I lived last. Dressmaker shop and boarding house. They knew me too well. Saved up enough money to leave, though."

Charity spontaneously asked, "How old are you?"

Ema smiled. "Twenty-three."

"I got married at twenty-two," Charity mused.

"I'm not much for marriage." Ema looked away.

"Well, you're young," Charity went on. "Relatively, anyway. And no one in the circus seems to do things the traditional way."

Ema met her eyes again. "Maybe. But I don't think anyone here is really...my type."

Charity smiled. "Anyone working here won't be shocked by much. They march to their own drums, here."

Ema tipped her head. "Still, I doubt it."

"Well, we've certainly got  _all_  types."

Ema looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she looked directly into Charity's eyes and stated very plainly, " _You're_  my type."

Charity was confused. She stared at Ema, entirely unsure what she meant for some time. Then, it clicked. And she had no idea what to say in return.

Ema smirked. "Don't worry. I'm not after ya'. I know you're married. And you're a little spindly for me. But...why keep secrets here, of all places?"

Charity swallowed. Suddenly, her own secret felt much, much less interesting. And far less potentially damaging. But she reminded herself that this is what she'd signed up for. All types. All peoples. The outcasts. The strange. A "celebration of humanity." The runaways running the night. So she smiled at Ema in silent acceptance.

Silent solidarity.

* * *

Charity would always remember the day Phinn first tried to stand. It was Sunday, the seventh of October, and the rain outside hit the glass in heavy torrents. The weather had turned cold, forcing Margaret and Dr. Warshaw to shake out umbrellas and heavy overcoats before heading back to the master bedroom that morning. Charity had lit all the lamps to compensate for the gray outside.

Dr. Warshaw wrapped Phinn's torso tightly in cloths for support, as Charity had been doing every day. Margaret gave him just enough morphine to make it bearable. He usually only took the shots at night, now. Then, with the help of all three people, Phinn managed to sit up and move to the edge of the bed.

He sat there, breathing heavily, and said, "I'm dizzy."

"That's normal," the doctor explained. "You haven't used these limbs in nine weeks. That's why we need to get them moving."

Charity was so grateful for the doctor, who was smarter than any physician she'd ever encountered. To assist, Margaret moved to Phinn's right side and the doctor stayed at his left. Charity stood in front of her husband.

"Focus on your wife, Mr. Barnum," the doctor instructed. "Focus on her face and use Margaret and myself to stand."

Phinn nodded. Charity held his eyes with hers. She could see the determination. And the fear.

Since he wore just a nightshirt, she could see the strain in his arms as he hoisted himself up off the bed. He was thinner, but Phinn would never be a slight man. He grimaced, grit his teeth, and eventually grunted as Margaret and the doctor took his weight. Faster than Charity expected, he was standing. For the first time in weeks, she looked up at him. Charity wasn't a short woman, but her husband still had about nine inches on her height. She looked up at him and smiled broadly.

Phinn opened his eyes, but he didn't smile.

"You did it," she said softly.

Phinn nodded. Grimacing again, he took a step forward. And then another.

The doctor intervened. "I think that's enough. You can hold your weight. That's all we needed to know."

They helped him step back and slowly sit down on the bed again.

Phinn rubbed his face. "I need to do so much more than 'hold my weight.'"

Charity stepped in toward him and said, "Not today, you don't. That was brilliant! For today."

Phinn sighed heavily.

Dr. Warshaw added, "You've healed well. I think things are as set as we could hope for. Now, you have to rebuild your strength. Strong muscles will help the bones continue to strengthen. So now it's time to move every day. Even through the pain."

The doctor seemed satisfied. He left Margaret with some more supplies and instructions. Then he smiled and departed. Margaret checked her patient over, gave Charity the evening syringes of morphine, and then left as well.

Carefully, Charity helped her husband lean back against the pillows. It was very, very quiet, except for the sound of the pelting rain on the window glass.

"I suppose this is our life, now. This bed. This room. But then, maybe it's good for a man to know how and where he's going to leave this world?"

Charity pulled over a chair, sat, and took his hand. She knew her husband was dramatic. Everything with Phinn had always been extreme. Highest highs and lowest lows. She tried to be his counterweight, his temperance, pulling him back when he swung too far either direction. Lately, however, it was becoming harder and harder.

"You have to give it time, Phinn. Time. Look how far you've come."

"I can't read," he snapped.

"And I told you to tell the doctor."

"Why? He's made it clear there's nothing else he can do."

"Phinn, he should know. We should be honest with him."

Phinn was pensive and silent.

"I'm going to check on the girls," Charity stated. She pulled her hand from his and headed toward the kitchen.

Later that night, they lay in bed, their bodies perfectly fitted together. Phinn was finally able to lie on his side for short periods of time, and they'd removed most of their clothes again. Charity relished the feeling of his warmth from her shoulders to her toes.

Phinn slid his arms around her and, to her surprise, gently kissed down her neck. He spent the next few minutes nuzzling her as such. Then he murmured in her ear, "Charity..."

She turned to face him and, before she could speak, he kissed her. He kissed her like a dying man who could only be saved by the power of her lips. Charity returned the kiss, hungrily, but pushed him back when he ran his hand up her nightshirt to her breast.

"Phinn," she said, "you're not ready. You've only just gotten out of the bed today."

"I am," he argued throatily before working his mouth down her neck again.

She felt, logically, like she should say no, that he needed more time, but she couldn't make the argument. She knew he was probably pushing himself out of sheer desperation not to be an invalid any longer, and that she should stop him. But Phinn stole the words from her lips with another kiss. Instead, she let him run his hands up her nightshirt. She let his hands find her breasts and she realized how starved they both were for physical intimacy. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his back, feeling the transition of his smooth skin to the rough bandages. He shifted some of his weight onto her, and she let her hands trail down across his bare buttocks. Through her thin undergarments, she could feel his arousal. She knew he was in pain, but it must be bearable if he could work himself into such a state. Or he simply wanted her that desperately.

She let herself get lost in his kisses for the next few minutes, allowing her body to ache and respond, to want him again without hesitation. She touched him, without fear, for the first time in weeks. Then she raised her hands to his face and said, "This is enough, Phinn. It's enough."

"No, it isn't," he said, his voice gruff with desire.

He shifted his body again and winced in pain. Charity looked up into his eyes, and she could see he was struggling to hold himself this way in spite of his determination. So she gently rolled him onto his back. She slid out of the bed and crossed the room to latch their bedroom door. As she walked back toward the bed, she pulled her nightshirt over her head and tossed it aside. His eyes were wide and glossy with undisguised desire for her.

Climbing back into the bed, she carefully leaned down and kissed Phinn's chest, working her way from the bones of his clavicle, down the midline, and to his naval. Charity took this opportunity to relearn every inch of him, her mouth finding all the dips and rises. Because he was so limited in his movement, he was at her mercy. She reacquainted herself with the sinewy strength in his arms and with the soft hair that she could trace from his chest, down his stomach, and beyond. He was so familiar, and yet so new again in the moment. In the soft light, Charity took the hard length of him in her mouth and he nearly came undone, it had been so long.

"Charity…" he could barely speak.

When she pulled back, she said, "I won't hurt you, Phinn. If you're in pain, we will stop."

He reached out and pulled her up to him, chest to chest, and kissed her senseless again.

Shedding her undergarments, Charity carefully straddled his hips. If she could capture the look of absolute adoration and unbridled want on his face, she would. Phinn could look at her and absolutely melt her. Every woman, she felt, should have a man look at her this way.

_Or a woman._

Charity suddenly, and inexplicably, remembered Ema. She blushed, because she hadn't been taught to think of such things. But, by now, she'd tossed out most of what she'd been taught about sexuality.

_Always let your husband lead in the bedroom. It's shameful and un-Christian not to lie beneath him, submissive._

Her mother's words seemed especially far away and ludicrous tonight. Her and Phinn had found their own way over the years, giving and taking, submitting and leading. They led unconventional lives, so why should their lovemaking be any different?

With Phinn still looking up at her and before they could second-guess it, Charity took him inside of her body. He gasped, and she leaned over so they were nearly face to face.

"I love you, Circus King," she whispered.

"And I love you, Charity Barnum."

Then she moved against him, using her arms to keep her weight off of him as best she could. She tried to be gentle, but his obvious pleasure spurred her on. It didn't last long, given her concern for his pain and how long it had been. But she found something very sacred in the moment—something that made her feel raw and deep and alive, as though the rhythm of their bodies was reminding her that life had won. It was imperfect and messy and maybe never the same again, but life had won.

Phinn fell hard, his hands clutching her hips in both pleasure and pain. Charity went with him, biting her lip to hold back the primal scream in her chest that wanted to cry out that that they were both  _alive_.

Breathing heavily, she pulled back and shifted her weight off of him as soon as she felt steady. Phinn lay next to her, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

After a minute, she asked, "Phinn? Are you okay?"

He nodded, but kept his eyes closed.

"Are you in pain?"

He nodded again, and she could see the struggle.

She stroked his chest, finding a sheen of perspiration in spite of the cool room. "Phinn?" she asked again.

"I"m okay, Chairy. I'll be okay. That was worth all the pain the world can throw at me."

She relaxed a little. "Do you want the morphine?"

"In a minute. Let's stay like this for a minute."

Charity slid closer and continued to stroke his chest. She pulled the quilt over their legs. Deep inside, she felt a sense of relief. His body certainly worked, at least in  _this_  way. She let the post-coital bliss numb her worries about whether he would walk unassisted. Or run. Or dance. Or read. She let go of her worries about the circus and the risks they were taking. She let herself be just Charity, and him be just Phinn.

And for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep without the aid of morphine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had someone ask about my published novel...it's called September Blue and it's on Amazon and Kindle. There's a link in my profile.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. This is a busy time for me at work. I've been writing all along, but I haven't had the time to do the editing and publishing. However, because of that I have already written the next chapter and part of the next. So more will come quickly. Thanks for hanging in there and I would love to hear your thoughts.

Charity woke before the sun broke the horizon. The rain had moved on, leaving the sky streaked purple and crimson. As sleep fell away, she registered Phinn's body next to hers, warm and solid. They were both still naked, but the door was also still latched. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, allowing herself to pretend, for a few minutes, that the accident and his recovery had been a dream. Lying still, like this, he looked well. If she ignored the scars, she could pretend their life had not taken this turn. She laid her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palm.

Before last night, It had been a little over ten weeks since they'd last made love. Ten weeks, because they'd been preoccupied the week before his accident with extra rehearsals. Last night, ten weeks had felt like a lifetime. Charity understood, however, that desire clouds perception. In the light of morning, things felt less urgent, and they had certainly waited longer for one another before.

She let her mind wander back to finishing school, when she'd been in her upper levels and Phinn's letters came every week or so. He was on the railroad by then, and there was a year when his words changed from the excited musings of a brilliantly creative young boy to a passionate young man. She remembered when she felt the first spark of real desire, the first grown-up longings to see him again, to kiss him in a less than chaste way.

She had waited for him through the end of school and after she moved back into her parents' house. She'd begged to go to college, but they had scoffed at the idea. Then they berated her as her friends married and started families. Still, Charity waited for Phinn. She waited until she was twenty-two, when he'd finally appeared on her father's doorstep, all polished and trying to look worthy of her.

She waited for him for three more weeks after that in the tiny apartment he'd secured in the city. That waiting had felt the longest, the most agonizing, as he insisted on buying her a ring and making their marriage official. Even now, in the hazy dawn of the present, she could remember their first night together. It was worth the wait.

In turn, Phinn waited for her after Caroline was born, a year after their wedding. There was a different mood to the waiting, then. It was tempered by exhaustion and the fullness of new life. It felt softer, less urgent, and more about wanting to celebrate what they had made, together. They tried to hold out for the amount of time Dr. Warshaw recommended, back when he had a full head of dark hair and didn't need his spectacles. But after eight weeks, they gave in. And Charity was sure the doctor knew, as she had turned up pregnant again just three months after Caroline was born.

When the time came for Helen to be born, Charity wasn't worried. Caroline had come easily, and by then she was a chubby one year-old who slept all night in her second-hand cradle. So Charity was ready when the pains came.

Helen's labor lasted three grueling days.

On the morning of the third day, on a dawn much like the one Charity was watching out of her apartment window now, Helen had finally emerged, feet-first.

The next week was a blur for Charity, as she had drifted in and out of awareness and the doctor wore a tight, unreadable expression, much as he had the night Phinn fell from the rigging. After a week, however, Charity recovered. She finally held Helen, a tiny blonde thing who startled easily.

They waited much longer for each other, after Helen. But the reunion was sweet.

Two years ago, Charity had waited for Phinn while he toured the country with Jenny Lind, worrying for the first time in her marriage whether he still wanted her, whether she was enough. That waiting had been agonizing and slow, with no sure end in sight. But he came home, and they rebuilt what they had lost. She remembered the day they secured their new apartment in the city and signed the papers to buy the land for the new circus. She had waited for Phinn to come home that night after he wrapped up loose ends with Phillip. She had waited for him naked and reclaimed the man she loved.

This morning, she felt a similar sense of satisfaction. Phinn was hers, no matter his struggles. His body, his brilliant mind, his insatiable creativity, it was all hers, and she would not let him fade away. She was not convinced that one night of lovemaking would bring him back from the dark place his mind seemed to hover lately, but she would not let him wallow in sorrow. They had lifted each other out of so much, walked through so much. This would not beat him. Not on Charity's watch.

In the quiet, she let her fingers gently trail over his chest and then up to his neck. She pulled closer, letting her hand slide up into his hair. She tried to let everything go for a few minutes, to rest in the quiet, knowing that the sun would rise and their family was complete for another day. She studied Phinn's face, from the sharp line of his nose to the laugh lines around his eyes. Phinn's smile was infectious. Charity loved to see his whole face light up, whether it was at a shared secret between Helen and himself or when he stepped out in front a crowd of hundreds. His smile was always genuine, always luminous, so full of hope and promise. Charity reached up and touched his face, longing to see that smile again. She pulled closer and very gently kissed his lips, her breasts pressed against his solid chest. He stirred, but did not wake.

As the sun finally broke the horizon, she pulled herself carefully out of the bed. Arranging the covers over her husband, she went to the wardrobe and pulled on undergarments and a basic house dress. She sat down in front of her mirror and brushed out her pale hair until it shone in the soft light. Then she went back to the bed.

"Phinn?" she whispered, kissing his forehead delicately. "The girls will be awake soon."

He stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. His brow furrowed, and he slowly raised his right arm to his head. He pushed his hair back, and then rubbed his eyes. "Charity. I had the most wonderful dream…"

She smiled, softly kissed his mouth, and then said, "It wasn't a dream."

He raised one eyebrow in that teasing, skeptical expression he had perfected over the years.

She giggled and kissed him again, like they were newlyweds, and confirmed, "Not a dream."

Then she went and unlatched the bedroom door.

A half-hour later, both of the girls were dressed for school. Betsy, the housekeeper, nanny, and the only servant the Barnum's employed, was making them toast and fruit for breakfast. While they waited, both Caroline and Helen climbed onto their parents' bed. Charity had helped Phinn back into his nightshirt and into a sitting position.

"Daddy," Caroline said, hazel eyes sparkling. "Madame Arnette gave me the solo in winter performance."

Phinn's face lit up, and Charity felt something in her hitch. Every tiny smile was a victory.

"Of course she did! You are, and always have been, the best dancer on that stage." His words were full of certainty.

Caroline smiled demurely. "She said I have pretty feet."

Helen laughed, but not unkindly. "Pretty feet? Dance is so weird."

Charity laughed as well. Her younger daughter demonstrated more and more of Phinn's sense of humor as she grew older. For Charity, Helen was like looking in a mirror, whereas Caroline had Phinn's eyes and thick, dark hair. However, Caroline was quiet and graceful, with a steady temperament like Charity. Helen, however, was proving to be her father's daughter. The older she got, the more messy and impulsive she became. Her eyes would often light up with mischief, much like Phinn's, as she told wild, complicated stories. She'd also taken to drawing and painting with a ferocity that surprised everyone. Helen, who had followed her sister for so long, who had gladly put on a tree costume at Caroline's first recital, was now making suggestions on how to paint the murals behind the dancers. She was coming into her own, and it was wonderful.

Caroline rolled her eyes at her sister's commentary about her feet. "You're the one who's weird."

Helen smirked. "I'm going to ask Amani to braid my hair after school. I want lots and lots of braids, like hers."

Caroline's eyes widened. "Isn't that a little…?"

"I'm not weird," Helen stated emphatically. "I'm an original, irreplicable, amazing human being who deserves to be seen."

Phinn chuckled. "I assume you've been spending time with Lettie, rather than on your literature assignments? Those sound like her words."

"I like her," Helen stated defensively. "And she helps me read, too."

"Lettie is an amazing lady," Charity conceded, "but both of you have school in a half-hour."

Helen groaned. "I'm smart. Why do I need so much school?"

"Because you can always be smarter," Phinn returned.

Helen kissed him goodbye and hopped off the bed. Caroline followed. She kissed her father on the cheek and whispered, "I love you, Daddy. I pray for you every day." Then she followed her sister.

When Charity returned from walking the girls to school, she found Phinn had pushed aside the breakfast tray Betsy had brought him. He had managed to sit all the way up, and his long legs dangled over the side of the bed. Charity stood just outside the bedroom door, so that he couldn't see her watching him. Alone, he struggled to pull on a housecoat against the chill in the air. Charity was about to make her presence known and help him, but she hesitated. Once he had the housecoat on, her husband placed both of his hands on the mattress and planted his bare feet on the hardwood floor. To Charity's surprise, he very slowly stood up. She could see the pain in his face and the trembling in his body, even from across the room. Still, he stood up. He slowly reached over and retrieved one of the crutches Margaret had left by the bed for him.

_We'll work up to these, soon_ , she had said.

Leaning on the crutch to support his right side, he took a shuffling, painful step forward.

Quietly, so she wouldn't startle him, Charity entered the room. "Phinn?" she asked gently.

He turned and tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

She crossed the room and stood in front of him. Gently taking his left hand to steady him, she pressed, "What are you doing?"

"I have to walk, Charity. I cannot stay in this bed any longer. I'm going crazy."

"Okay...but you're supposed to wait for the doctor."

"No. I have to try to get around on my own. I cannot be an invalid any longer. And Dr. Warsahw said to try." Phinn argued.

"I know," Charity looked up at him, "but I don't think he meant alone."

Phinn bristled. "I haven't done anything alone in weeks. It's suffocating."

Charity was hurt. "I've only been trying to give you the best care possible."

His shoulders slumped. "I know. I know. But you know I can't stand to be needy."

She squeezed his hand. "You're not needy, Phinn. You were gravely injured. You still are."

He let go of her hand. "No. I'm not. The wounds have healed, and it's time to get back to my life."

Charity again felt the sting of his words. "The circus isn't your  _whole_  life, Phinn. Being able to spend time with the girls this morning, that's your life. Me and you...last night... _that's_  our life."

"It's not enough, Charity," he snapped. "I need to be in the ring. I thought you understood by now how much it means to me."

Charity's breath caught. She knew he was struggling with a lot of emotions and a lot of pain, and that he might not be entirely rational, but his words stung. All she heard was "it's not enough." It made her feel inadequate and small, and a little used. What had felt like a beautiful reunion the night before now made her feel as though  _she_  wasn't enough.

Taking Phinn's arm, she stated flatly, "You have to sit down."

Out of sheer exhaustion, he complied.

* * *

The following night, Phillip was making the rounds of the circus tent, making sure all the entrances and exits were tied shut from the inside and that the valuables were secured. Now that he knew Charity and Anne liked to work in the lyra at night, he let them come in the staff entrance. Tonight, however, they were both at home. Making his way back out of the main tent and into the backstage area, he scanned the space for mislaid props or costumes. Finding one of Tom's riding coats, he picked it up and carried it past all the prep areas where animals were held before entering. He lit a lamp and made his way into the crowded dressing areas, which were simply curtained partitions. Finding Tom's, he hung the coat over a wooden chair. As he turned to leave, he heard a rustling.

Alarmed, Phillip followed the sound.

At the end of the row of partitioned spaces, he stopped. Following his ears and his instinct, he pulled back a curtain to reveal a dressing space filled with sequined costumes. He was just about to chalk the noise up to a rat, when he caught a glimpse of flesh among the costumes. Pushing back garments from a rack, he found Ema asleep on a couple of hay bales.

"Ema?" Phillip's question was louder than he intended.

She sat up abruptly, pulled a knife from under her makeshift pillow, and whipped it towards him.

He jumped backward. "Whoa! It's me, Ema! It's Phillip."

She pushed her hair back from her face, looked him over, and relaxed her arm. Her hair, which was usually tied back, was a cloud of dark waves and curls that tumbled down her back and over her shoulders.

Phillip reached out and took the knife from her. "I sincerely hope this isn't something you ever plan to actually use."

She stood up and said, "You never know. Might not be you the next time. Now gimme my knife back."

Phillip looked at the knife and then at her. "Who exactly do you think might be coming in here looking for you?"

She shrugged. "You never know. People don't need a reason to be snoopin' or stealin', or just being mean."

"We pay for security outside the tent, Ema. We have since the fire two years ago. So you're safe in here."

Ema shrugged again. "If you say so."

Phillip sensed Ema's fears might be rooted in something deeper than random thugs sneaking into the circus tent, but he didn't push. Instead, he asked, "Ema...you've been a cast member for a month. Why are you sleeping in the tent?"

She looked away. "I ain't got nowhere else to go."

He had a flashback to Lara and Mara three years ago, who had shown up to audition with a small satchel of costumes and nothing more. Charity had bought them clothes and first suggested turning the back of the circus facility into makeshift housing. When they bought the land and put up the new tent, Phinn had insisted on building real housing for the cast who wanted to live on site, with bathrooms and clean beds. Lettie lived there now, along with the twins and several others. They paid for the privilege of living there by keeping the place clean and in good condition.

Phillip started, "You can't sleep in the tent, Ema…"

He saw her defenses go up.

Before he could finish, she snapped, "I told you, I've got nowhere else to go! And you wanted me in your show. So to do that, I've got to sleep here." She paused, and he saw her mind working. "And if you won't let me, I'd be willing to bet there are some people out there who would love to know that P.T. Barnum's wife is here at least one night a week, wearing a skimpy costume and swinging from a lyra. All while he's laid up in bed at home. And I know she ain't told him. Overheard that myself."

Phillip's face registered shock, and then settled into understanding. "Are you bribing me, Ema?"

She cocked her head. "I just need a place to sleep. Call it what you like."

Phillip pulled over another wooden chair and sat down. He stared at Ema for a long time as she stood there, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was wild and dark, her eyes piercing. She wore a shapeless nightdress that was gray and worn, but still couldn't hide her long legs. She was beautiful, but not in the delicate way of most of the women he'd been around most of his life. He was fairly certain Ema could kick his ass if she really wanted to. He imagined her life couldn't have been easy, to this point.

_Just like P.T._

Phillip couldn't help making the comparison. P.T. had lived on the streets for years. But Ema was a woman, and he knew that must have made things even harder.

After a long, heavy silence, Phillip finally said, "You don't have to bribe me, Ema. I know about Charity already. And we have housing for cast members. All you had to do was ask."

Ema's face showed confusion and then surprise. For the first time since she'd come to the circus, she was speechless.

"Come with me," Phillip instructed. "And bring your things."

Ema picked up a small duffle bag and followed him out of the tent.

The cast member housing was just across the property from the tent, closer to the river. The residents lived two to a room, with common washrooms. Phillip had a room in mind for Ema. Once inside the two-story building, he made his way to the end of the hallway on the first floor. Ema followed. Stopping in front of one of many plain, brown doors, he knocked. After a minute, it opened slowly.

"What is it?" Lettie asked sleepily.

Phillip smiled, trying to force positive energy onto Lettie. "I'm sorry for the late call, but I've brought you a roommate."

Lettie stared at him, and he couldn't read her expression.

"What?" she finally asked dryly.

He leaned in and said softly, "I found Ema sleeping in the circus tent. She needs a place to stay."

Lettie raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and said, "I snore. I thought you understood that."

Phillip remembered, but he was also fairly certain Lettie's "snoring" was just a way to keep from acquiring a roommate. Until now, he was ok with accommodating her, but her extra bed was the only one left in any of the female rooms.

"Lettie," he pressed, "she was sleeping in her dressing area." He gave her his most pleading look.

She heaved a sigh and opened the door all the way.

"Ema," Phillip gestured toward the room, "your new home."

She looked almost as wary as Lettie as she entered the room and looked around. Lettie had decorated the space in bright colors, with beads and scarves hanging from the walls and ceiling. Old posters of Lettie and the other oddities hung on the walls. She had several of Helen's drawings tacked up as well. In one of them, Lettie was mid-song during a show. In the others, the twins were dressing for the show. Phillip realized he could tell that Mara was the one demurely applying her makeup, while Lara had her head thrown back in laughter.

Ema dropped her satchel on the empty bed, turned back to Phillip and said, "Can I have my knife back now?"

Lettie looked from her to Phillip in alarm.

He begrudgingly reached into his pocket and produced the offending item. Handing it to Ema, he warned, "No more threatening anyone. No one here plans to hurt you."

She nodded and snatched it from him.

"Phillip? A word?" Lettie indicated he should follow her into the hallway. She closed the door behind them and said, "Who was she threatening with a knife?"

Phillip sighed. It was now after midnight and he was exhausted. His head ached and he longed for sleep. "Me. I scared her and she pulled out the knife."

Lettie looked ready to murder him as well.

"I think she's had a hard life. And I know you did, too. I'm not belittling that. But I think hers might have involved personal violence. Or at least living somewhere at some point where she  _needed_  to sleep with a knife under her pillow. So...maybe we give her the benefit of the doubt?"

Lettie sighed and replied, "Fine. At least for one night."

Phillip was too tired to argue anymore.

* * *

"I've already told you three times. I'm fine. Really...fine."

Anne was staring at her husband, and she did not look convinced.

Phillip was getting ready for the weekly rehearsal, held on Thursday morning, just over a week after leaving Ema with Lettie. His headache from that evening had turned into a sickness he could not shake. Anne insisted it was because he was overworked and exhausted, and he knew she was right. But he refused to admit it. The couple of times he'd seen Charity over the past week, she'd looked tired as well, and she was very tight-lipped about her husband. He sensed something was off with both of the Barnums, something beyond the obvious injuries, recovery, and caregiving, so he didn't want to burden Charity with his health. He had been trying to keep his sickness from Anne, as well, but she was too keen to be fooled.

"Phillip Carlyle. Sit down. Take off the coat and sit down." Anne, all hundred pounds of her, was not to be crossed today.

Out of sheer exhaustion, he complied. Phillip draped his Ringmaster coat over the chair in his dressing area and dropped into it.

Anne gently touched his face and said, "You're burning up. You need to go home and let the doctor look at you."

He shook his head. "The show must go on. You know that as well as I do. We coined the phrase."

"Well, tonight it's going to go on without you," Anne insisted.

"And how do you propose that's going to happen?" Phillip demanded.

"There has to be someone else who can introduce the acts," Anne mused.

Phillip looked at her incredulously. "There's more to it than that, Anne."

"I know…." She chewed her lip and Phillip could tell she was struggling with something.

"What is it?" He sighed.

With her dark eyes wide, she asked, "What about Ema?"

Phillip snapped to attention. "What about her?"

"She could do it," Anne returned softly.

"No. She won't."

"Why not, Phillip? She's capable. You saw her. It bothers me more than a little that you seem to hate the idea of a woman going on for you. Let her do the rehearsal and put her in tonight."

Phillip's head throbbed, and his frustration mounted. "P.T. hasn't seen her. What would he think of it?"

Anne's expression softened. She came closer and pushed his hair back, feeling his forehead again. Her touch instantly calmed him. "I would like to believe that P.T. Barnum would think she's magnificent. That she is different. And that different is beautiful. But even more than that, I think he trusts you to make the right decisions when he can't."

Phillip felt his resolve crumble. Anne was right. He was sick and Ema was more than capable. The audience would love her, and as for the critics, they had never mattered much before.

So he gave in.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One random thing...I know some of the characters' speech is not exactly the way people of this time period would speak, but I figure it's the same tone as the movie, which used modern language, so I went with it.

Charity was in the audience that evening when Ema went on. She'd gotten word from Anne that Phillip was sick and Ema would be taking his place. Even having heard about Ema's audition, she wasn't prepared. She looked so much like Phinn in silhouette it was almost frightening. It wasn't just her height and build. There was something in her posture, in the lines of how she moved and the way she  _felt_  the music that was simply...Phinn. Phillip was a great performer in his own way. Charity would never put him down. He had a boyish charm that was irresistible and he brought playfulness to the show, but Ema echoed Phinn's showmanship.

Talia, who came from Italy with her husband Jon, was the show's seamstress as well as a master of the tightrope. In just a few hours that afternoon, she had taken Ema's audition costume and turned it into a stunning ensemble. The red Ringmaster coat fit Ema's figure beautifully and her legs looked impossibly long in the black stockings. Talia had added gold embellishments to the coat and and vest to make them match Phinn and Phillip's. Her ensemble was completely that of a Ringmaster, but with more feminine lines. Her hat was just like Phinn's, and she wore it with the same confidence.

It was obvious the audience had never seen a woman in a top hat before. Charity could tell most of them assumed she was Phinn, at first. They were cheers and twitters among the crowd when they thought P.T. Barnum had returned to the ring. However, when Ema sang, the response shifted. Her voice was powerful, but it was not Phinn's baritone. Ema was deep, mezzo-alto, and the opening number rolled off her tongue like expensive whiskey—full and strong. They audience seemed stunned at first, as though Ema was the strangest thing they'd ever seen. Charity found it funny that people who came to see the strangest things on earth, who expected to see albinos and dwarves and dancers who could bend themselves into knots, could be rendered speechless by something as simple as a woman in a top hat. But the site of Ema shocked them. Slowly, as the show went on, Charity watched most of them settle into the idea of being led by a woman. Just like Phinn with that first, uncertain audience, Ema flashed a winning smile and had them in the palm of her hand. However, there were a few who grumbled to the end, and a few who walked out.

Charity couldn't tell if Ema's performance would help or hurt the circus in the long run. It was too early to guess, but she was certain that people would be talking about it the next day. She was sure the press would come and write about it. The old Phinn, the pre-accident Phinn, would have said that any kind of press was good. He was the man, after all, who had turned the derogatory term "circus" into something everyone wanted to attend. All of it made Charity ache, because she missed watching Phinn so much. The whole tent seemed to scream his absence, to her. And seeing Ema in his place, no matter how good she was, hurt Charity's heart.

It didn't help that the past week had been painful for both of the Barnums. Phinn insisted on trying to walk every morning, in spite of his obvious discomfort, even agony. Margaret refused to leave more morphine, hoping lack of medication would persuade him to take it slower, but he still pushed. With determination that bordered on masochism, he forced his body to stand and move. This morning, he had made it to the window. As he stood there, chest heaving from the effort, Charity had tried to encourage him, to praise his progress and ask him to slow down. But he shrugged her off and stared out towards the river.

She wasn't sure how to talk to him. In spite of his progress, he seemed more withdrawn every day. He accepted a kiss every night before they went to sleep, but he hadn't tried to touch her again after they made love the one time. Charity was more hurt than she would admit. She felt as though he'd wanted to  _prove_  he could make love, and now that the proving was done, he'd moved on to the thing that mattered more to him—getting back into the circus. The man she was living with now reminded her more of the man who'd left her for Jenny Lind than the husband and father she'd had for the past two years. Phinn had juggled the circus with his family beautifully for that long, and Charity had been content. They had balance, she thought. Now, it seemed his fall had tipped the scales and the circus was pulling him away again.

In addition to trying to slow him down, Charity had also stopped bringing him the papers every morning. Phinn hadn't commented, yet, but she was sure he knew why. She couldn't bear to watch him struggle to read them. He looked miserable and hopeless, and she didn't know how to help. Charity had finally told Dr. Warshaw about her husband's struggle to read in confidence, and he didn't seem surprised.

"These types of things are very common with head injury," he had said.

"Will he be able to read again?"

"I can't answer that. Only time will tell."

She longed for more certainty.

The morning after watching Ema perform, Charity returned to Phinn after walking the girls to school, per usual. He was wrestling with the crutches, and she watched him struggle to the window once again. She said nothing, having learned that arguing was fruitless.

Once he collapsed into an upholstered chair, she said, "Phillip is sick."

Phinn turned, curiosity outweighing pain.

"Anne says he has a bought of something awful. Fever and such."

Phinn nodded. "I hope he's well soon. I haven't seen him lately and we need to discuss business. I can't be out of the loop this long."

Crossing to sit on the edge of the bed, Charity said, "He missed the show last night."

Phinn snapped to attention. "Was it cancelled?"

"No." Charity hesitated. "Ema went on for him."

The words hung in the air like the smell of something rotten.

"What?" Phinn's jaw set in anger.

Charity sighed. She'd hoped for the old Phinn, who she was sure would have loved Ema.

"She's great, Phinn. You would love her. I think you would be proud of her and all that she brings. She can't replace either of you, but she's at home in the part, just like you. She was meant to do it."

"How can you know that?" Phinn snapped.

Charity knew exactly what he was implying. She could hear it underneath his words.

_You're just a housewife. What could you know about it?_

She was terribly hurt. This person in front of her, scowling and demeaning her, this was not her husband. This was not the man she married.

"Do we have pen and paper? I need to write Phillip." Phinn snapped again.

Charity nearly refused, but she was so hurt and angry that she was afraid to speak. If she spoke, she would either say words she would regret, or burst into tears. So she retrieved pen and paper from the study down the hallway.

Phinn took them and leaned over the table beside the chair where he sat. He stared at the paper for a long time, pen in hand, until his hand began to tremble. Charity watched him, confused. Suddenly, he tossed the pen down and dropped his head into his hands.

Charity understood.

_He can't write, either._

The ache in her chest grew more fierce.

Without looking at her, Phinn demanded, "Get Phillip. I need to speak to him. Now."

"Phillip is sick," Charity said softly.

"Then take me to him."

Charity had no idea how to do that. She stared at her husband as he stared out the widow into the gray afternoon. The sky threatened rain, again. The space between them felt cavernous, impassable. He had put up a wall she didn't understand and didn't know how to scale. So she watched him, and silently prayed.

* * *

"What were you thinking?"

Phillip stared at P.T., not sure how to answer. He had never seen his partner so upset. P.T. Barnum was the master of laughing through trial, of putting a positive spin on the worst of situations. This sullen man was a stranger to Phillip, so he struggled with his response.

"I was thinking...there was no one else who could go on. Ema was the best choice. I was thinking that you're the man who pulled people out of actual gutters to be in our show, that you've always seen people differently than the rest of the world, so I thought you would see Ema that way."

P.T., who was now able to travel as far as the living room, stared back at Phillip from the plush chair where he sat. He replied, "She's only been in the show a few weeks, Phillip. And you're letting her run it! And she's been going on for a solid week now! How do you know what her intentions are?"

Phillip scoffed. "I think her intentions were to find a warm place to sleep, and she's using what she's good at to make that happen."

"Every time you let her go out there, she has the whole show in her hands. She can make or break us. I can't believe you would treat it so lightly as to hand it to a stranger!" P.T. continued to stare Phillip down. His eyes were stormy and sad.

Phillip couldn't hold his tongue anymore. "You know what I think, P.T.? I think Ema is  _you_. She's you, thirteen years ago—just a street rat with a million dreams. She's rough around the edges, but I think that's because she's lived through a little bit of hell. She deserves a chance, just like you did, becauses she's earned a chance. And because she's good. She's very, very good at what she does. At what  _we_  do. She's a Ringmaster, and you need to see her."

"I don't want to see her!" P.T. snapped and looked away.

Phillip felt anger well up in him. "You're not even willing to watch her? Once?"

"No!"

Why?"

"Because I'm don't want to see my replacement, Phillip! She might be the best damn Ringmaster our show has ever seen, but I don't want watch someone stand where I should be standing!"

P.T. looked away again, nearly trembling with emotion, and Phillip understood. This wasn't about Ema being a woman. When Phillip had first stepped into the ring, he and P.T. were partners. Ema, however, was salt in the wound. To P.T., she represented the circus moving on without him. Phillip felt some of his anger dissipate and sadness take its place. He could only imagine what his friend, his partner and mentor, was going through. Phillip's friendship with P.T. was fierce. He loved him like a older brother, like family he didn't have. He loved P.T. Barnum more than he would admit most of the time, and he couldn't stay angry when he knew his partner's behavior was rooted in such anguish.

Carefully, Phillip said, "She can't replace you. She never meant to. She's just another addition to the show."

P.T. wouldn't meet his eyes. "I think you should go, Phillip. Do what you think is best."

Phillip wanted to say more, but he couldn't find the right words. It seemed, there weren't any. So he gave a half-hearted smile and silently left the apartment.

* * *

That night, after the show, Charity, Anne, and Ema were sitting in the empty tent eating leftover peanuts and talking. This was becoming something of a ritual, since Charity's secret was now shared by the three of them. She and Anne had grown very close over the past few months and Ema was quickly becoming a good friend, as well. Anne wore a dressing robe over her leotard and Ema had tossed her Ringmaster coat over the bleachers near them. She held her hat in her hands.

"The children of Beelzebub were here again tonight," Ema stated. "One of them was throwing peanuts at the acrobats. And at me."

Anne rolled her eyes. "They come every Wednesday with their nanny. One of them tried to trip one of the elephants, once. I mean, what sort of kid tries to trip an  _elephant_?"

"A stupid one," Ema answered. "Maybe we should let him try again. Might get what's comin' to him."

They all laughed, and Charity added, "I bet Phillip knows who they are, or who their parents are. Not that knowing would do us any good."

Ema shrugged. "Rich. Poor. It doesn't really matter if you trip an elephant and it sits on you."

They laughed again. Charity looked forward to this time, when the hum of the show was still in the air and the three of them sat together, talking like school girls. For a little while, the real world and all its problems faded away. She felt a nagging sense of guilt, because she knew staying to talk after the shows was a way to avoid going home to a sullen and silent husband. Charity hated the state of things between her and Phinn, but she was holding out hope that he was simply walking through another stage of healing. She hoped that once he regained more mobility, his outlook and his mood would improve. She intended to walk through this with him, but there were nights she simply needed some space.

"Phillip says he's comin' back tomorrow night." Ema stated flatly while pulling her hair loose from the tie that held it back, her hat now in her lap.

Charity smiled in encouragement. "I'm sure you'll keep performing. Phillip doesn't need to go back to doing every show, every night. That's how he got sick."

Anne nodded. "He can't do that to himself again."

Ema shook out her hair and it tumbled down her back. She wore it in a knot at the nape of her neck for shows. "I hope he thinks so. This is what I was meant to do. Didn't know it until I walked in here a year ago, but now I'm sure."

"It's a special thing, when you find something you really love," Charity mused.

"Or someone," Anne added.

"Easier for you than for me," Ema countered.

"There wasn't much about marrying Phillip Carlyle that was easy," Anne returned.

"You're right. Sorry for making light of that," Ema apologized. "Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in my own loneliness."

With Ema's permission, Charity had told Anne about Ema's attraction to women.

"Marriage doesn't always guarantee you won't be lonely." Charity made the statement without thinking.

There was a tense silence before Anne offered, "He'll come through it Charity. I'm sure of it."

Charity wanted to believe her. Trying to stay in the bubble of positivity, she changed the subject. "Ema...how's the new room working out?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's lovely, rooming with someone who I fear might kill me in my sleep."

Anne laughed. "Lettie wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Ok," Ema huffed. "Maybe she won't kill me. But she may drive me insane. She starts singing at seven in the morning. In the morning!"

"Roommates are difficult," Anne commiserated. "I had a few in addition to my brother over the years."

"And husbands aren't necessarily easier," Charity added with a smile.

"Truth," Anne agreed. "And mine is waiting for me."

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. With a nod and sad smile, she headed for the dressing area to change and head home.

Charity knew she was stalling as she said to Ema, "Just you and me, huh?"

Ema nodded. "I suppose neither one of us wants to go home?"

Charity couldn't argue.

Sliding closer to Charity on the bench seats, Ema said, "I've admired P.T. Barnum since the moment I walked into this tent a year ago. All I wanted since that night was to perform here." She paused. "I was here the night he fell. I know it doesn't compare to you, but...that was the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to me. And I've lived through some shit. This world wouldn't be the same without P.T. in it. I think, if we can help him know that, then he'll find his way back."

Charity was speechless. Ema was funny and tough as nails, but this was the first time she'd shown such genuine emotion. Ema held Charity's gaze with her wide, blue eyes and Charity felt a deeper, more real connection.

Just as quickly, Ema stood and said, "I'm going to go face Lettie. Hopefully, I didn't leave makeup everywhere. She hates that. Along with everything else I do."

"Good luck," Charity offered softly.

Ema walked away, and she was alone.

* * *

The next morning, the twenty-sixth of October, dawned cold and clear. In spite of the bright sun, the scent in the air hinted at the first snowfall of the season. Phillip arrived at the circus tent early, intending to get through some paperwork in the office. As he walked the gravel road that led from the East Village toward the river, where the circus tent stood, he remembered how hot it was the night he had carried P.T. out of the tent. He remembered the sweat on his brow as he'd helped Charity into the carriage. He shook his head, because, on one hand, it didn't feel as though enough time had passed since P.T.'s fall for it to be nearly winter. On the other, it felt as though a lifetime had passed.

As Phillip grew closer, he realized someone was sitting outside the tent on one of the benches usually reserved for patrons. A few steps closer, and he recognized Peter Murray. He heaved a sigh, not ready for this confrontation. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. Phillip despised confrontation. P.T. had a way of disarming his opponents with charm, whereas Phillip just felt flustered and generally revealed too much.

When he was within earshot, Peter stood and said, "Phillip Carlyle."

"Peter." Phillip tipped his head in greeting.

"It's Mr. Murray."

Phillip looked him over. Peter Murray was the definition of average. He stood just slightly taller than Phillip, with the build of someone who sat behind a desk all day—round in the middle and gangly everywhere else. His hair and his clothes were all various shades of dull brown. His glasses aged him by ten years. He might've been attractive, once, but his features had grown pinched from scowling. He wore a wedding band, and Phillip wondered if he was as negative at home as he was in his work. He imagined the man at home, constantly repeating household rules to Mrs. Murray, who would be inevitably exhausted from such minutiae.

"Ok then, Mr. Murray," Phillip started again. "What brings you here?"

"I think you know," Peter stated.

"I don't think I do." Phillip wasn't going to make this easy.

Peter Murray stepped closer. "Your aerialists are performing again. From what I've been told, they've been going on for over a month, now."

"I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long." Phillip couldn't help himself. Anger and frustration brought out the snark in him. "We expected you weeks ago."

Peter pressed his lips together in disapproval. "The Board of Trade has other matters to investigate, besides your circus."

Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. "Then why not focus on those? There's nothing here that's hurting anyone or causing any trouble."

"You violated a direct order from the Board."

Phillip nodded. "Yes. We chose to ignore the orders you gave us, because there is no law that states we cannot have aerialists in our show. Your job is to enforce the laws that exist, not make new ones as you like. If you think it's so important that we change our show, you'll need to file for an injunction."

Peter Murray was quiet for a moment. "You're willing to take this to court?"

Phillip swallowed hard. "Yes, we are."

"Very well." Peter picked up his briefcase from where it sat by the tent and walked away without another word.

Phillip watched him until he was a tiny figure on the long road leading back into the city.

* * *

That same morning, Charity answered a knock on her front door just after she'd taken the girls to school. She opened the door to find Anne, who she wasn't expecting.

"Morning. Is everything all right?" she asked.

Anne nodded. "Yes. Phillip headed to work early. I wanted to bring these by. I'd nearly forgotten, with everything going on."

Over her arm, she had Phinn's Ringmaster coat and a satchel with his clothes and boots from the night of the accident. In the other, his top hat. Charity vaguely remembered Phillip taking the clothes at some point when Phinn was in the hospital, offering to make sure they were all cleaned. The hat, she assumed, had been at the circus.

"Thanks," Charity smiled. "I know Phinn will be glad to know they're safe until he can return."

Anne smiled. "Let him know that Phillip, and Ema, are ready to have him back the minute he's ready."

"Absolutely," Charity agreed. "Do you want to come in?"

"I can't," Anne returned. "I have an appointment with the doctor."

Charity tipped her head in curiosity.

Anne took a deep breath. "You know...Phillip and I would love to have a baby. I want to make sure everything is...normal."

Charity's heart went out to her friend. "Of course. I'm sure everything is fine. Childbearing can be such a fickle thing."

"I know," Anne agreed, "but you had no trouble…"

"True. But after Helen...it's been twelve years and no more babies. Some of it is just a mystery."

"I guess. But I'm hoping to solve some of the mystery," Anne said.

"I hope you do." Charity stepped in and wrapped Anne in a hug.

"Thanks." Anne pulled away. "I better run." She handed the coat, satchel, and hat to Charity, who gave her an encouraging smile.

Charity shut the door and stood there for a long time staring at the items in her hands. There were so many memories wrapped up in these clothes. She remembered Phinn with this hat in his hands as he promised her father he would take care of her. He'd had it meticulously cleaned and repaired when he opened the museum that would become the circus, determined to make a good impression. She remembered when he'd gone to the dressmaker and described exactly the coat he'd envisioned wearing when he was a boy. Charity would never forget the day he'd first put it on, the way he'd come alive in front of the crowd. Now, she wistfully traced the gold embroidery on the sleeve.

Taking a breath, she headed back to the master bedroom. Inside, Phinn was sitting in the chair by the window, where he often was as of late. He turned when she came in.

Trying to smile, Charity said, "Anne brought these by. She had them cleaned for you. Do you want me to hang them in the wardrobe."

Phinn's face registered what she was carrying, but she couldn't exactly read his reaction. He shook his head. "Not yet. Let me see them. I should make sure everything is right, for when I need them again."

Charity crossed the room and placed the hat and the coat on the table in front of him. She set the satchel on the floor at his feet. Taking a chance on his good mood, she kissed him lightly on the forehead and said, "I thought I'd make some tea. Should I bring you some?"

"Sure." He gave her a tiny smile.

Grateful that he seemed in better spirits, she headed toward the kitchen.

When she returned, two cups of tea in her hands, Phinn was still sitting in the chair by the window. In his arms, he held his red Ringmaster coat. The black top hat sat on the table in front of him. She started to enter the room, but something stopped her in the doorway. Charity's breath hitched. She felt like someone had stabbed her through the heart.

Phinn was crying. The tears ran down his cheeks and he furiously wiped them away with one hand. The other clutched the coat that meant so much to him. Charity could see the raw struggle. She could almost feel how badly he hurt, and she wanted to run to him. She wanted to cross the space and wrap him in her arms. She wanted to tell him how beautiful and perfect he was, no matter his physical abilities. She wanted the power to heal his broken body and put him back in the ring. She wanted to wipe away the tears. But the last few weeks had driven a wedge between them, a crevasse she was afraid to cross.

So she stood in the doorway and watched, her heart breaking for him, as he cried.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the wait. This really is the busiest time of year for me. Once again, I've written two chapters, so the next will follow shortly. Send me some words.

"So...what did the doctor say?"

Phillip was trying to choose his words carefully. He knew Anne's appointment that morning had been heavy on her mind for the past week. Now, after she'd returned home from the appointment, the two of them were having lunch in their apartment, and Anne was only picking at her food.

She gave him a tiny smile. "He said everything looks normal. He can't see any reason why we shouldn't have a child."

Phillip felt a weight lift. "That's good, isn't it?"

Anne sighed. "Yes. And no. It just means he has no idea what's keeping me from getting pregnant. It means there's nothing to fix."

Phillip started to take another bite, when he saw the tears in his wife's eyes. Putting down his fork, he got up and crossed to her side of the table. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet.

"Anne Wheeler, do you know how much I love you?" He kissed her on the forehead. "I have loved you since the first moment I saw you." He kissed her nose. "It wasn't a crush, or just lust. I just  _knew_  you were the one I was meant to find." He kissed her cheek. "And I will love you whether we have twenty children, or no children." Phillip captured her mouth with his.

For a moment, there were no more words. She opened her lips to him, and he deepened the kiss. Their tongues found one another, familiar and yet always erotic. Anne pressed close, her strong body fitting perfectly against his. He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back, letting his fingers trail over her buttocks. Their apartment was small, so the couch was only a few steps from the round table where they shared meals. Anne pushed him back towards it. Her hands, strong and limber from holding the trapeze, made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. She cast it away and pushed him down onto the sofa. Dropping her house dress to the floor, she had his pants undone and his body exposed before he could argue.

Not that Phillip would have argued. He meant what he'd said before. Anne had cast a spell the first time he saw her on the trapeze, and he was always powerless to say no to her. That powerlessness led to moments like this, where he found himself on the sofa, pants undone, with Anne on top of him at just after noon on a Friday. She moved beautifully, head thrown back, her eyes closed.

Suddenly, she leaned in and captured his mouth again. Then, she worked her lips down his throat, nipping at the sensitive skin in a way he was sure would leave a mark. Her fingernails dug into his bare shoulders and she made soft sounds that were so familiar and yet so erotic he almost lost control. Sensing his reaction, she drove harder, nipping at his earlobes.

She whispered next to his ear, "I love you, Phillip Carlyle."

"Fuck!" He fell. He fell hard, and he couldn't help but let profanity escape.

Anne held him tightly, her breasts pressed against his bare chest as she whimpered through her own climax. Then, she kissed his mouth again, slowly, thoroughly.

When she pulled back, he said softly, "My god, Anne, I'm sure that this time…"

She cut him off. "Don't say it, Phillip. I'm not getting my hopes up anymore. This isn't about that. I want it to be about just you and me, like it used to be. No pressure. So...hold me for a bit? Please?"

He pulled her close, skin on skin, and kissed her shoulder. In a world that often felt like it was spinning around him, in a career that felt like a circus even outside the ring, Anne was his rock. She was the surest thing he had, so he crushed her to himself, eternally grateful for the certainty of her. And, for a moment, everything was still.

* * *

The following Sunday, a clear yet frigid day, Charity sat in the stands in the circus tent. She and the girls came from church, so they were all dressed in their best winter dresses. They came to collect Ema for lunch, so she wouldn't have to walk to the Barnums' place in the cold.

After much persuasion, Phinn had agreed to meet the new Ringmaster. Charity had decided that, as much as she wanted Phinn to see Ema in action, as much as she felt that would win him over, she was also worried it might be too much for him. The old Phinn would have been delighted by someone so out of the box. However, Charity wasn't sure what the man she now lived with would do or say. It was also logistically still impossible to get Phinn to the circus, so she had decided it would be best to bring Ema to him. If they could make peace between them, and if she could assure Phillip that his partner approved of Ema, they would all be better prepared to face their real enemy—the Board of Trade.

When they arrived at the tent, Ema was dressed in trousers and a loose blouse, which she had tied at her waist. She wore her performance shoes and she was walking through choreography with Lara and Mara. Lara, true to form, was dressed similarly to Ema. Mara had on a flowing, lilac dress that she picked up to keep from tripping as she moved through the steps. Lettie was sitting in the stands opposite Charity, pretending to read a book. Charity could tell her focus was on Ema, however, because she occasionally rolled her eyes over the edge of her book.

Caroline immediately took off into the ring when they arrived and begged Ema to let her go through the choreography. Helen sat down a few feet away from her mother and pulled a drawing pad from her satchel. It was already full of sketches of the circus, each of them capturing the movement and life of the show. Now, she added more, smudging her face with charcoal as she worked.

"Helen," Charity stated after about twenty minutes, "you've got charcoal on your dress."

Without looking up, Helen returned, "Caroline has tied up the skirt on  _her_  new dress."

Charity's head snapped toward the center ring, and Helen was right. Caroline had tied up her satin skirt, including the crinoline, with the sash of her dress so she could dance more easily.

Charity started to call out to her daughter to preserve the fabric, but her eyes moved to the expression of sheer joy on Caroline's face. She remembered spitting tea all over  _her_  new dress when Phinn had made her laugh. She remembered all the dresses she'd drug through the sand, all the puddles she and Phinn had splashed in while wearing her newest clothes. She couldn't remember the dresses, but she remembered the moments. She remembered Phinn's eyes, the way the sand felt between her toes and the way he'd held her hand. So she said nothing, and let her daughter dance.

"Mother!" Caroline called out after another few minutes. "Watch this!"

Ema and Caroline walked through the Ringmaster choreography from the opening of the show, and even Charity was impressed at her daughter's musicality. She looked a foot taller in the ring, wearing what must be Phillip's hat. She flipped the Ringmaster cane around her arm, caught it, and posed with finesse. Charity clapped along with Lara and Mara, and Helen kept drawing.

Lettie looked up from her book and said, "You're missing a beat, in the middle. There's three, for the lights, and you're missing one."

Ema turned, and Charity wasn't sure whether she was going to laugh or scream. Taking a measured pause, Ema called out, "Well, if you would show me, I could fix it."

"Why should I show you?" Lettie called back. "Everyone already loves you."

Charity didn't miss the snark in Lettie's voice.

"Come on, Lettie! You've been here since the beginning! You know this better than anyone! Show me!"

Charity looked back and forth between them. Phillip had mentioned that, since making them roommates, the two women had been at odds with each other. She couldn't imagine Lettie holding a grudge this long. She hadn't even managed to stay mad at Phinn for a solid week after the first circus burned down. And Ema was tough as nails in front of a crowd, but the more Charity got to know her, the more she found her to be very giving and quick to forgive. She couldn't imagine what they were continuing to fight about, unless both of them had simply never learned to share their personal space with someone else. Charity remembered when Caroline and Helen used to share a room, and how they bickered over the smallest things. She decided the animosity must be due to close quarters and nothing more.

"Everyone already loves you, Ema!" Lettie closed her book and stood to leave. "You don't need my help."

"Lettie!" Ema called after her.

As Lettie walked away, Caroline went through the steps again. This time, most likely by drawing on a memories of watching her father from the beginning, she hit the beat Lettie had mentioned. Then, she threw open her arms and sang, "So tell me do you wanna go?"

Her voice echoed through the space, no longer the soft soprano of a child, but the belt of a woman. The argument was forgotten as all of them stopped and watched Caroline sing. When she realized they were all watching, she fell silent.

"That was pretty damn good," Ema said with a smile.

"Ema! Language!" Charity called out.

"She's right though," Helen spoke up. "That was pretty damn good."

Charity turned to see her younger daughter still drawing, but with a very Phinn-like smirk on her face. Ema covered her mouth to conceal laughter, and Charity couldn't helping chuckling herself.

"I suppose this is what I get, for raising you around all these misfits." Charity smiled at the others, so they would know she wasn't really upset. It was, after all, the life she chose. "Now come on. Betsy will have lunch soon and we'll be late."

It was a short carriage ride to the Barnum's apartment from the circus tent. Once there, Ema ran her hands through her thick hair, trying to tame the curls. She had part of it tied back, while the rest tumbled down her back. She still wore the trousers and blouse, although she'd traded her performance shoes for more sensible boots. Charity saw no reason to dress Ema up like a society girl. There was no sense in pretending Ema was something she wasn't. Better for Phinn to know exactly who was stepping into the spotlight every night.

When they came through the front door, Charity was surprised to find Phinn fully dressed and sitting in the living room. On the outside, he looked better than he had in months. Save for the crutches lying to the side of the chair, she could have sworn he was in top condition. His clothes concealed that he was thinner and hid all the scars. Caroline and Helen immediately noticed as well, and they ran to him with stories about church and the circus. Charity hoped Betsy had helped her husband get to where he now sat, but the realist in her was sure Phinn had struggled from the bedroom by himself.

After the girls had finished chattering, Charity shooed them into the dining room. Then she turned back to Ema and Phinn. Ema had been very quiet since they arrived, which was unusual for her. Looking her over, Charity could tell Ema was a bit starstruck. As good as she was on her own, Charity had nearly forgotten that Ema had gotten that way by watching Phinn for a year. She had stepped into the shoes of someone she idolized, but had never met in person.

Charity took a deep breath and said, "Ema, this is P.T. Barnum. Phinn, this is Ema Semanovka."

They stared each other down.

"Where do you come from, Ema?" Phinn spoke first.

She raised her chin. "Here. New York City. I was left on the doorstep of a Ukrainian family just after I was born."

"Really?" Phinn looked genuinely interested.

Ema nodded. With a smirk, she added, "Most people who don't want their babies leave them on the doorsteps of rich people. But not my mother. Guaranteed poverty for me. Every parent's dream."

Phinn studied her, his expression only slightly taken aback at her brazen description of her beginnings.

"It's okay, though." Ema waved off any pity she might receive. "They're good people. The ones who raised me."

Phinn continued to hold her in his studious gaze as he said, "We don't choose where we come from, do we?"

Charity watched their interaction carefully. Phinn was much calmer than she'd expected. He had made the same connection she had made when she first met Ema. They were similar in more ways than just a love of performing. Charity let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. If her husband could see that Ema came from a similar place, then maybe he could stop seeing her performances as taking from him, but adding to what he'd created.

Nodding her head in solidarity, Ema said, "It's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Barnum."

Charity could tell she meant it.

Betsy came into the room and said, "Lunch is ready."

Phinn started to rise from the chair, and Charity rushed to help him.

He gently held her back. "I can do this."

"Phinn…" She started to argue.

He reached for the crutches and, leaning on them, hoisted himself from the chair. He stood for a moment, breathing through pain, and then struggled to step forward. He stumbled, and Charity caught him. She held on, steadying him with her arm around his torso, and she felt a sudden, unexpected ache in her soul. She missed him. She missed holding him. She missed the two of them leaning on each other, walking through things together. For a moment, she held him and breathed in his scent, and wished he would let her help.

Pulling away, he steadied himself and said, "I can do it."

Charity stepped back and glanced at Ema. She could see sad disbelief in the younger woman's eyes. In the space of just a few minutes, she'd met her hero and subsequently seen how broken he was. Even seeing him fall hadn't prepared her for this. Looking at Ema, Charity understood better why Phinn didn't want visitors, why he seemed both determined to be back in the ring and yet reluctant to visit the circus and see Ema in action. She couldn't imagine a tent full of people looking at her husband, the great P.T. Barnum, with pity and sad resolve that his career was over. It made the ache in her chest more pronounced, and Charity took a deep breath.

Motioning to Ema, she said, "Come on."

They walked slowly to the dining room while Phinn struggled with the crutches.

The meal was much more civil than Charity expected. Betsy made roast beef and potatoes, a staple of hers, as she came from the English west country. Betsy dined with them, because Charity had insisted, upon employing her, that she would not be treated like a servant. She was a member of the family, with her own room, who simply happened to draw her income from household chores.

As they ate, Phinn asked Ema how she had found the circus, and Ema recounted the story of buying her first ticket with her meager wages working in a laundry.

"I found Lettie in the laundry," Phinn added between bites as he listened.

Ema's eyes lit up with curiosity. "Really? She won't tell me anything about herself. She just yells at me for leaving the lamps burning at all hours."

Phinn chuckled. "That sounds like Lettie. She's a mother hen with no chicks."

Ema laughed. "Lettie? It's hard to imagine her mothering anything."

Phinn tipped his head, "It's a tough love. She held that first group of performers together when I couldn't. When Phillip wasn't ready. And she'll tell you what you need to hear, when you need to hear it, whether you like it or not."

Ema sobered as she considered his words.

Again, Charity watched them. Caroline and Helen watched them, and there was a timid, unspoken truce as both Ringmasters peeled back each others layers, exposed the flaws, and considered co-existence.

After lunch, when Ema had gone, Charity helped Betsy clear the table and sent the girls out into the garden behind their building to occupy themselves. When she returned, she found Phinn in their bedroom again, sitting in the chair by the window. He'd shed his coat and tie from lunch and he stared out the window once again.

Before Charity could speak, he said, "I see why Phillip picked her."

From behind him, Charity said, "I don't think he picked her, so much as she was the only choice."

"Well, she came at the right time," Phinn replied with quiet resolve.

After a beat, Charity asked carefully, "Would you consider coming to see her, then?"

With his focus still out the window, he nodded and said flatly. "I suppose. If I ever leave this apartment again."

Something in his acceptance of Ema rang hollow for Charity. She didn't feel peace. What she sensed was emptiness. She'd hoped he would accept Ema as part of the team, but this acceptance was more like resolution. And somehow, resolution was worse than anger.

* * *

At the Sunday night performance, Phillip stood backstage, waiting to go on. He could hear the thrum of voices behind him as performers prepared for their acts. He drew in the scent of the heavy curtains and the sawdust. Light from the bright lamps flooded through the cracks in the curtains and Phillip felt a familiar rush of adrenaline. He did love this, even though performing wasn't something he'd ever considered until P.T. came into his life. Now, with Ema to share the burden, he was starting to love it again.

"Oh for the love of Saint Christian!"

Phillip turned at Lettie's outburst. She sat to his left, at a table with a mirror and bright lamps for applying makeup. She dropped a pot of lip color and a brush in frustration.

"What is it?" He asked while checking his pocket watch.

"She uses all my stuff!" Lettie exploded. "When she can't find her stuff, she uses mine!  _All the time_!"

"Who?"

"Ema!" Lettie stood from the table. "There has to be somewhere else she can go, Phillip!"

He shook his head. "Right now, no there isn't."

Fuming, Lettie approached him and said, "You should've asked me first! I would never show up, in the middle of the night, at your house, and  _make_  you live with someone!"

Trying to calm her, he returned, "But if you brought me someone homeless, I would like to think that I would…"

"Do you know what she is?" Lettie cut him off.

Taken aback, Phillip asked, "What?"

Stepping in close, Lettie whispered sharply, "She's a  _sapphist_!"

Phillip stepped back. He'd worked long enough as a playwright amongst the artists and opera singers to know what she meant.

"How you can you be sure?"

"It's not a secret, Phillip. She told me."

Phillip was stunned, and he wasn't sure why. He was used to being around people who didn't conform to society. Ema had already broken so many rules, he wasn't sure why he was even surprised. Perhaps he was more surprised that she had admitted it to Lettie.

Lettie stepped in again. "What's worse? She fancies Charity."

Phillip drew in a sharp breath. Surely that wasn't true. It must be a rumor born out of Lettie's frustration with her roommate. Still, he was shocked that she would make such an accusation. Lettie could be tough, but she was soft on the inside. She was defensive of those she loved, but never intentionally malicious. This was out of character, but he had no time to inquire about it now.

It was showtime.


	15. Chapter 15

"You've gone too far! It's one thing to parade around freaks who were born that way, but that's a man's hat and you know it! You've willingly stepped in where ya don't belong! You're a disgrace to the name Barnum!"

It was Tuesday night, after the show, and the man screaming obscenities at Ema was burly, with a thick beard and the heavy scent of whisky on his breath.

"My name isn't Barnum! It's Semanovka!" Ema returned, not backing down in the slightest.

He stepped in closer, so that he was almost touching Ema, and slurred, "You fucking Polish whore!"

Charity watched, a knot of fear in her stomach, as Ema stepped in even closer. In her heels and hat, she appeared taller than the surly man in front of her, although he had at least a hundred pounds on her. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Ema placed one hand in the middle of the man's chest and shoved, hard. He stumbled backward and fell, landing with a thud. Those who were still lingering outside the circus tent gasped.

"Ok!" Phillip stepped in between Ema and the man who now struggled to stand. "Let's all move on. Let's agree to disagree and everyone head home. And have a good night!"

Charity continued to watch as Phillip waved onlookers away from the entrance to the circus tent. He helped the drunken man to his feet and refused to let go of his arm, dragging him away from Ema and the tent.

Ema had been outside, greeting guests and waving them off as they went home, when a couple of men started heckling her. The burly man was the loudest. For everyone who embraced her new role, who appreciated her charisma, there were some at every show who disagreed. And when they disagreed, it was not quietly. As Phillip physically led the man away, Ema held her head high, hugged a few more children, and then headed back inside. Charity followed her as she walked straight across the performance space and through the flap leading backstage. Ema tossed her hat toward a hay bale and shook off her coat. Tossing it away, she kicked at the hay bales in obvious frustration.

"What's the problem?" Lettie asked from across the space.

"They're heckling her again," Charity explained gently.

Ema turned on Lettie. "What do you care? I know you wish I'd disappear!"

Lettie's face registered shock and then anger. "I said I wanted you out of my  _room_! I never said I wanted you to quit!"

Ema turned away, still fuming.

Lettie, who looked equally as angry, stormed off towards her dressing area.

"Ema?" Charity tried to get her attention. "Ema?" She took the taller woman carefully by the arm. "Let's go talk. Come on."

Charity led her outside and down towards the river. Once there, she spread out the cloak she carried so they could both sit on the grass. It was cold, but Charity's dress was wool and warm enough.

Ema paced in front of Charity rather than sitting down. "God, I hate that!"

"I can't imagine anyone who likes to be yelled at," Charity stated. "And...you're not even Polish, are you?"

"No, but no use arguin'. Hate is hate. It's just...what right have they got to decide what anyone should or shouldn't do? Probably push their wives around when they get home, if anyone has been unfortunate enough to marry the assholes!"

"I hope that's not true," Charity tried to be reasonable. "I hope they're just loud-mouthed idiots."

Ema stopped pacing and her shoulders dropped.

Charity patted the cloak beneath her. "Ema? Come. Sit."

Resentfully, Ema dropped onto the cloak.

"Some people will never understand, Ema. Some people have meanness that goes so deep you can never extract it. That's a hard lesson Phinn and I have learned over the years."

Ema sighed. "I know. It just makes me want to hit 'em. Hit 'em hard."

"Don't do that," Charity shook her head. "If you keep hitting people, we'll all be in trouble. No one wants to see The Greatest Show on Earth performed from a jail cell."

Ema finally chuckled. She pulled her hair loose and shook it out. They sat there for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts.

Very carefully, Charity asked. "Ema, can you tell me more about where were you living, before this?"

Ema stared across the river before responding. "Further downtown, working in a laundry for the wealthy. I was strong, so I was good at it. Before that, I worked for a dressmaker and lived above the shop with a bunch of other girls. I was  _not_  good at that." She swallowed hard before she kept going. "But I had a crush on one of them. First time I ever admitted, out loud, what I am. She was blonde, like you. Big blue eyes. And when I told her, she screamed like I'd bit her and told everyone. That's when they spit on me. Called me a bastard and several other unsavory things." Ema still stared across the river, her jaw set, her pain obvious.

Softly, kindly, Charity offered, "I'm so sorry, Ema. Words hurt. They really do."

Ema nodded. She picked at the gold braiding on her vest for a minute before stating, "My parents don't even know what I am. I think it would be the thing that finally pushes them over the edge." She paused. "They're good people, my mum and dad. They're from Ukraine, and they've worked really hard for what they have, which still isn't much. They have no other kids, and they love me more than I deserve, 'cause I drove 'em crazy. Always running away, throwing dramatic tantrums. I skipped school for any reason I could find. I snuck into a couple of operas with my friends. Didn't care much for it. Didn't realized how much I loved performing until I walked into the circus a year ago. This place feels like home...and when those men start heckling me, I wanted to hit 'em because they don't understand what it's like to not fit in, ever, and then finally fit."

Charity nodded. "They're small-minded, Ema, and there's only a few of them. Everyone else loves you."

"Except for Lettie."

Charity sighed. "True. But I have hope she'll come around."

"Maybe." Ema stared across the river again. "You know, I took the job at the dressmaker's shop because it's the only thing I know about the woman who birthed me. Her note said she was a dressmaker. She worked for a tailor and it went bad, somehow."

Charity felt a hitch in her chest.

_All that money, and still just the tailor's boy._

They were words neither she nor Phinn would ever forget. Charity wondered, for a moment, about the possibility implied, and then shook it off. The city was too big. It was impossible, so she said nothing.

Ema stood up and paced some more, lost in her own thoughts, and Charity watched. Ema's legs looked even more impossibly long in just her leotard, vest, and stockings. Luckily, the ground was dry and could take the weight of Ema's heels.

As Ema paced, Phillip approached in the darkness. Charity saw him and gave him a smile. He crossed to where Ema paced and touched her shoulder from behind. To Charity's shock and horror, Ema whipped around and punched Phillip squarely in the face.

He dropped to his knees. "Fuck, Ema! What the...fuck?" He held his face. She hadn't drawn blood, but it might leave a bruise on his cheek.

Ema's hands flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! It was...you startled me!"

Phillip sat back for a minute, holding his face and getting his bearings again. "Ok. I'm ok. I only wanted to tell you that those men, and everyone else, is gone. We're clear of audience members if you want to come back."

Ema nodded, obviously remorseful. She held out her hand to help Phillip to his feet. He took her hand and hauled himself up. He rubbed his face a bit more.

"Again...so sorry," Ema offered. "I think I'm on edge, from before."

"It's okay, Ema. I just...I'm going home. See both of you tomorrow." Phillip walked away, and Charity felt his pride was hurt more than his face.

Ema met Charity's eyes and she said, "I really didn't meant to hurt him."

Charity couldn't help laughing a little. "Didn't you pull a knife on him once, too?"

Ema nodded sheepishly. "I don't have the best history with men. I've learned to be...on guard."

Sobering, Charity carefully asked, "Ema...did anything else happen at the dressmaker's shop? Or the laundry? Because I know Lettie has said that sometimes, the men who run the place try to..." She couldn't get out the question.

Ema's eyes darkened. Her expression turned stormy. "Of course they did. All of them. And, after a while, it was easier to just give in. After all, better to be known as a whore than...what I really am."

"Ema…" Charity's voice was full of sympathy.

"Don't pity me!" Ema snapped.

"I'm not," Charity defended herself, "but I do recognize when something is wrong. And I have learned, in this life I have chosen, to accept all kinds of things that society shuns. And not just accept people who are different, but find the beauty in them."

Ema stopped pacing and stared down at Charity. Her expression was hard to read. After a moment, she sat down beside Charity again.

"You know...I'm stronger because of all of it. Quit that job. Kept myself alive until the day I auditioned here. And now I'm the Ringmaster of The Greatest Show on Earth. Shows all of 'em what a bastard orphan can do."

"Orphan?" Charity asked.

"I just assume."

"You know, Phinn's an orphan. We had nothing when got married."

Ema nodded. "I do know. And you've loved each other since you were kids."

Charity raised an eyebrow.

"I read it in the papers, a while back," Ema explained.

Charity nodded. She couldn't argue with that. The life and times of P.T. Barnum could always sell papers.

"It's nice," Emma said softly. "Your love story...it's nice."

She turned and looked up towards the stars, which shone sharply in the crisp, clear night. They were both starting to shiver, and Charity wrapped her arms around herself. She studied Ema in profile. Her cheekbones could be Nordic or maybe Greek. Her jaw was strong, like the Russian jugglers. Her eyes were darkest blue in the starlight. Charity couldn't say for sure where her lineage might lead, and she was sure Ema must've stared into the mirror and wondered, herself. In profile, however, her nose was still so reminiscent of Phinn that Charity couldn't help but stare. For a moment, she wanted to reach out and touch her.

Charity looked away. Ema was beautiful, and Charity hoped very much that someone else would see it, and fall in love with her.

_Someone like her._

Charity suddenly remembered Phinn's wishing machine from so many years ago. Looking up, she cast her wish for Ema to the stars.

* * *

"Phillip?" Anne called from the bedroom, where she was still curled up in the quilts.

"Yes?" He returned with hot cups of tea.

It was mid-morning, but they kept late hours, which often made for late mornings.

Anne held up the day's papers. "They're writing about Ema again."

Phillip handed her a cup and rolled his eyes. "You'd think they would've lost interest by now."

"Apparently, she assaulted some gentleman last night?"

Phillip sat down on the other side of the bed and set his tea on the bedside table. "Well, at least they're quick. That much can be said for the press."

Anne laughed. "As well as a few other choice words."

"It was nothing," Phillip explained. "He deserved it. He was harassing her and she shoved him away."

"Good for her," Anne stated with a smile.

As she sipped her tea, Phillip sorted through a pile of envelopes sitting on his bedside table. He'd put off the mail for a few days and it could no longer wait. One particular envelope caught his eye, and he tore it open with a sudden unease in his gut. He read over the letter and drew a heavy breath.

"What is it?" Anne asked.

"The Board of Trade filed for an injunction," he explained bluntly. "They want us in court in a month to decide whether to force us to permanently remove the aerialists. And, as they state, 'Anything else that might prove a danger to the public.'"

Anne snatched the letter from him and read it over. "What a bunch of…"

Phillip rubbed his eyes. "We knew they were going to do it. Peter Murray  _said_  he would do it."

"Still. He's an asshole." Anne fumed.

"But he's a powerful asshole." Phillip sighed.

"But we're going to fight." Anne stated rhetorically.

"We'll fight as hard as we can," Phillip said without much conviction. "But I'm no lawyer and I'm not sure who we can convince to take on this case…"

Sitting up straighter, Anne said, "You'll get the best lawyer we can afford! But, Phillip, you've got more than that. You can do more than that!"

"What more is there?" Phillip asked. "I told Peter Murray to take it to court, and that's what he has done."

"True. But every judge, and jury, and board, and person of influence is also influenced  _themselves_ , and by more than testimony. They're influenced by the press, because the press reflects public opinion. And public opinion is very important to public officials."

"So what are you saying?" Phillip asked.

Anne, with her eyes bright, explained, "Phillip, you're a writer. I know you've become a businessman and a rather delightful performer, but you were a writer first. And a damn good one, based on the reviews. So, write. Write us out of this. People have used the press for years to sway public opinion and thereby political or social change. Alexander Hamilton, in that schoolbook Charity was going on about with Caroline, he wrote a bunch of articles that changed our entire government by swaying opinion. So, starting writing, Phillip. Defend the circus. Write us out of this."

Phillip stared at her, shocked at how brilliant her idea was, and also how daunting.

Leaning in, she said softly, "You're more than a playwright, Phillip. Tell me you'll do this?"

He nodded, unable to say no.

Anne kissed him squarely on the mouth and then went back to her tea. Before she took a sip, she threw out, "Oh, and we have to have treats for the little ones tonight. It's All Hallow's Eve and some of them will be dressed."

Phillip rolled his eyes again. "Silly Celtic tradition. It'll never last."

Anne gave him a skeptical look and said, "You're Celtic. Or at least your last name is."

Phillip couldn't argue and agreed to pick up extra treats for the show.

* * *

The following morning, Charity lay in bed much longer than usual. She was tired, a deep, pervasive kind of tired that suggested she might be coming down with something, possibly what Phillip had had. When she finally rose, she went to the kitchen for tea. Betsy took one look at her and waved her off, promising to get the girls to school. Charity, grateful, did not argue. Back in the bed, she dozed off for at least another hour. When she woke again, she found Phinn sitting by the window in his usual place, shuffling through a pile of papers on the table in front of him.

When he saw she was awake, he held up a newspaper and asked, "What are these?"

Charity adjusted her pillow and answered, "Articles about the show. Mostly about Ema. Phillip brought them to the show last night and asked if I wanted to look any of them over. I thought it might be useful to at least skim them...to know what they're saying."

Phinn nodded, his brow furrowed.

Sensing his unspoken dilemma, Charity offered, "I could read them to you, aloud."

He shook his head. "No. If I don't keep trying, I'll never improve."

"That's true," Charity said softly, "But if you don't succeed today, and you still want to know what they say, I would be willing."

Phinn didn't argue, but kept his focus on the papers.

Charity sat up against her pillows and carefully added, "Phinn...Phillip also told me he got a letter from the Board of Trade, or from the court, actually. They filed for the injunction. We have to go, in a month, and defend our right to have aerialists in our show."

Phinn clenched his hands into fists. "A month?"

She nodded.

"That's not nearly enough time!"

"Maybe not, but if we all work together…"

Phinn slammed his fists on the table. "How am I supposed to be of any help if I can't read any of the correspondence? If I can't  _write_  in return? If I can't leave this house? I can't even leave the fucking  _house_ , Charity!"

Sliding out of the bed, she ignored the complaints of her body as she crossed to her husband. Taking his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her as she said, "Everything you have ever needed to succeed, you have in here." She lightly tapped his forehead. "We both know you were never one for keeping the books or sending the memos. That's Phillip's area of expertise. But the ideas, the solutions to make the  _impossible_  happen, they came from here. From  _you_. And that part of you is still here, and still works beautifully."

Charity hoped with everything in her that that was true.

"Maybe…" Phinn said with little conviction. The passion of his outburst quickly dissipated.

Since he didn't pull away, Charity wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her. Where he was seated, she drew his head against her chest and held him, raking her fingers through his hair and trying to will the life back into him. Trying to inspire him to fight.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been a bit. I had some surgery May 25 and didn't bounce back nearly as fast as I thought I would. Then, this week, my cousin passed away. But I finally got this one complete. So I hope you enjoy and send me some thoughts.

"How many times have I told you, Charity? I'm not an invalid. I won't be!"

Charity heaved a sigh. It was Friday, the second of November, and she had presented Phinn with a nearly-new wheelchair, compliments of Dr. Warshaw.

Phinn had snorted. "Compliments, indeed."

"Phinn," Charity tried again, "It's just to make things a little easier while you heal. It's not forever. If you could just get used to the idea..."

He snapped his head around to look at her. "If I get used to that, I may as well give up."

"I think we both know good and well that you will never give up. I don't think you know what those words mean."

Phinn smiled, just slightly, and Charity saw her window.

"Come on. Just try it out."

Phinn sat motionless on the living room sofa.

"Phinn?" Charity pushed harder.

Crossing to sit beside him, Charity tried a different approach. "I thought, even though it's temporary, this might be a way for you to finally...visit the circus."

She had his complete attention.

"This chair would make it possible for me to take you. You know you can't walk that far, even if we take the carriage, and I know how much you want to…"

He cut her off, "They can't see me like that."

"What?"

"Charity." His eyes were intense. "I can't have everyone see me pushed around, literally. They would lose what little faith they have left in me!"

Charity countered, "The only way you could lose their faith is if you gambled away their home again. No one in the cast thinks for a second that you aren't invested in the success of the circus. Your physical condition won't make them love you any less. The ones who have visited here, they love you just as much as they always have."

Phinn shook his head. "And what about the audience?"

Charity threw up her hands and said, "You know as well as I do that scandal sells tickets. Announcing you'll be returning, even to watch, will sell out a crowd."

"So I'm just another sideshow freak?" He scoffed.

"I thought you said you would never call them 'freaks'?"

Phinn was obviously remorseful. "You're right. I didn't meant that."

"Phinn." Charity gently touched his jaw. "I know you want to go back, and this is the way right now. What anyone thinks or says, if they haven't walked in our shoes, it doesn't matter. What matters is you're still here, that you have the  _chance_  to go back."

He looked away. "That may be true, but it's not enough for me.

Charity was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

Still pensive, he answered, "It's not enough just to be alive, Charity. Even though there might be some lovely sentiments to that effect."

Charity frowned. "You survived, Phinn. You survived something terrible. Are you saying that's not enough?"

After a beat, he nodded. "I  _have_  to have the show in my life. I have get up in front of an audience and have that give and take. That rush. It's part of who I am now."

"But two years ago…"

"I know. I know," he conceded. "I needed balance. But balance implies there are two sides to the scale. A complete lack of performing means tipping the scale the opposite direction. I cannot live that way."

"So we'll visit the circus. We'll go every night if you want," Charity stated matter of factly.

"It's not enough," he snapped. "Not if I can't do the show."

Taking his hands in hers, Charity studied her husband's fingers. They were long, graceful, and yet strong. Phinn could've held his weight the night he fell, if he'd been able to seize one of the ropes. She was sure of it. Phinn was strong. He was stubborn and fiercely driven. But balance had always been his weakness. His Achilles heel had always been his inability to moderate his responses, to hold back and not play his whole hand immediately, to understand that he was human and some things were, in fact, impossible.

Still holding her husband's hands, Charity, on impulse, sang in a soft, sweet soprano:

_All the shine of a thousand spotlights._  
_All the stars we steal from the night sky,_  
_will never be enough. Never be enough._  
_Towers of gold are still too little._  
_These hands could hold the world but it'll  
_ _never be enough. Never be enough._

She couldn't belt to the rafters like Jenny Lind, but Charity's voice was pure and true.

He looked at their entwined hands and said, "Don't sing her song to me, Charity. Don't open that wound."

"You walked away from her, Phinn. You walked away from her  _and_  her song because you finally heard it. At some point, you stopped hearing just her  _voice_  and heard her  _words_ —the life you have has to be enough."

Charity could tell from the way his jaw was set that Phinn knew she as right. He understood, but understanding did not erase his pain.

After a long, heavy silence, he finally stated, "I'll go back. But I will  _walk_  into that tent."

Charity knew there was little she could do to change his mind.

* * *

The following evening, Charity sat in the stands again with Ema and Anne after the show. She yawned widely and tried to roll the ache out of her shoulders. She knew she should be at home, sleeping off this persistent feeling of illness instead of chatting with her friends. Her girls already had one parent who spent most days in bed or in a chair. They didn't need to be left completely in the care of Betsy. But she couldn't make herself go home yet.

"Would you consider adoption?"

Charity snapped back to attention. Ema had asked the question of Anne.

Anne, who was picking at the edge of her costume mindlessly, answered, "No. Not yet. I can't give up hope yet. It's only been a little over a year."

Ema tipped her head. "You should never give up hope. My parents never did. But they only ended up with me. And I know I'm glad they took me in."

Anne smiled. "Well, if someone leaves a baby on my doorstep, I will most certainly consider taking it in."

Ema returned, "I just mean...there's a lotta kids out there living in terrible conditions. Especially...the ones who aren't so...white."

"You mean like me?" Anne snapped.

"I mean it's unfortunate that the darker the baby, the more likely it is to end up in The New York Foundling Hospital." Ema stated.

Anne leaned in. "Believe me, I know all about what happens to brown and black babies. I was born in Georgia, on one of those huge plantations. My mother was an "employee" of the house. My father  _owned_  the house. Needless to say, when I was born and his wife found out, we were no longer welcome. They beat my brother's father to death in front of mother, so she ran off with me and my brother. Joined the only place that would have us...traveling acrobats. It's the only life we've ever known. And my brother would kill for me for sure. He  _still_  keeps an eye on Phillip. He's always been protective.

Ema listened, wide-eyed. Charity knew Anne's story. She'd finally gotten the courage to ask about it right before her and Phillip married. None of them were strangers to people with difficult stories. Charity had heard enough of them since they started the circus to fill a novel. Still, she hated that Anne's happy ending wasn't turning out as perfect as she'd wanted. Charity certainly understood that it's hard to tell the heart what it should want.

"I've thought about adoptin' someday. 'Cause it's not likely I'll have any of my own," Ema admitted.

Charity chuckled, "I suppose not, if  _I'm_  your type."

She meant it as a joke between friends, but Ema looked at her with intense eyes.

Anne broke the silence, "I would consider it, too. Just not yet. I know how much Phillip wants a baby of our own." After a beat she finally smiled. "And I have to admit, I have been looking forward to telling Phillip's parents that we're expecting. Imagine their faces, knowing they're finally having a grandchild, but he or she won't be a lily-white Carlyle."

They laughed, and the tension finally faded.

* * *

Four days later, Anne came into the kitchen still in her housecoat and slapped a newspaper down in front of Phillip. It was nearly noon, and the late morning edition had just come out.

Phillip looked her over. "Did you go outside like that?"

Anne shrugged. "That paperboy stands right outside the door to the building."

Phillip laughed.

"But look!" She turned a few pages. There, in the society section of the paper, was Phillip's first editorial about the circus.

He looked it over. He had decided to start simply and explain how they had begun, how the circus had started as a way to see things you couldn't see anywhere else. And a huge part of that was seeing people who weren't afraid to defy gravity. Phillip was proud of his piece, because he didn't call out Peter Murray directly. Not yet. Still, it was printed in the society section.

"I would feel better if they'd put it with the proper editorials."

"They will," Anne assured him. "Raise a little controversy, and they will. Everyone knows your name. And you're a master with words. They won't be able to bury the story much longer."

"I hope not, because we need all the support we can get."

Anne kissed him on the head. "Master. Words. Keep writing."

Then she sauntered toward the washroom.

* * *

The following night, the cast was getting ready to go on stage. It was Phillip's turn as Ringmaster, and he was brushing the lint from his top hat. He liked to have everything set at least fifteen minutes before curtain. He liked to know everything was in order. He checked his coat again and made sure his cane was by the curtain. He smiled to himself, remembering how P.T. used to come running from somewhere backstage minutes before curtain, throwing on his coat and shouting out a new idea he wanted to add for Act Two. It made Phillip long for his friend. Then, he glanced over at Ema.

She was dancing with the cast tonight, as she often did when she wasn't running the show. He was proud of her for that, because she could have taken the glory and the other nights off. As she adjusted her costume, Lettie came from her dressing area. Ema pulled something off the prop shelf and approached Lettie, and Phillip couldn't help but overhear them.

"Lettie?"

The bearded woman raised an eyebrow as she checked the clips in her hair.

Ema offered her a package.

Taken aback, Lettie turned it over a time or two before silently and cautiously opening it.

When the box was open, Ema explained, "It's replacements for most of your makeup I've used. Or 'borrowed.' And a couple of brushes."

Phillip could tell that Lettie was entirely speechless.

"I also wanted to tell you...I'm moving out," Ema went on. "I found a room close by I can afford to rent and the people seem decent. So...I'll be out of your hair. And your stuff."

Still stunned, Lettie started, "Ema...I…."

Ema tipped her head. "Look, I get it. You and I, we're used to being on our own. You like your space. I like mine, however small. It's how we are. And I'm a mess. I know it. So maybe if we have some space...we can find a way to be friends."

Lettie finally nodded. Phillip could tell she was trying to put on an indifferent mask, but Lettie's eyes, dark and glossy and so expressive, gave away that she was touched. "That's kind of you, Ema."

Ema leaned in and kissed Lettie on the cheek. "Thanks for not killing me." She teased. And then she was off to check her makeup.

Phillip checked his watch. Ten minutes to showtime. He watched Lettie carefully close the package she'd been given and stow it on the dressing table until after the show. Something in her face made him cross over to her and break his rule of only concentrating on the show at this point.

"Well, she's out of your hair." He tried to be lighthearted.

Lettie nodded, but he could tell she was troubled.

"Don't tell me you'll miss her?" He half-teased.

She looked like there was a war going on behind her eyes. Looking away, she said, "You know...some of things that make us circus folks different from other people are obvious. They're right on our faces." She reached up and touched her beard. "But some things that set us apart...you cannot see. Some of our differences are more than skin deep, and some of us can admit those differences more easily than others."

Phillip was confused.

Sensing he didn't understand, Lettie said, "If any man were interested in courting me, and luckily there haven't been any, I would turn him away for Ema. I would turn them all away for Ema." She gave Phillip a long look.

He understood. But he had no idea what to say.

She sighed. "It was easier to fight with her than...admit that to her. Because...we both know... _Charity_  is her type. I just...needed her at a distance."

He was still speechless.

Lettie added, "Don't say anything. You don't have to. Just...keep this to yourself. Please?"

Phillip could only nod.

* * *

Two nights later, on a bitterly cold Friday evening, Phinn agreed to come back to the circus, but insisted no one know ahead of time. He rode silently in the carriage next to Charity, and she felt like he was glad for the cold. It gave him reason to bundle up in layers, including a dark overcoat, scarf, and hat. He asked for the carriage to take them to the cast entrance. He had conceded to using the wheelchair to get from the carriage into the main tent. Charity was grateful, because of the cold, the dark, and the uneven ground. Phinn could manage to walk upright, if slowly, with a cane, but he could easily fall.

Once they reached the tent, he signaled for Charity to stop pushing the chair. Their girls were at home with Betsy, as he'd insisted this visit be inconspicuous. Very slowly, Phinn stood from the chair. Seizing the cane, he found his balance. Then, one step at a time, he made his way into the tent.

As the Barnums moved slowly through the space, the noise backstage dropped to a whisper. Then, one a time, the greetings came:

"Good to have you back, Barnum!"

"We've missed ya!"

"You heard Phillip hired a girl, right?"

The last comment came from Tom, and Charity could tell he was teasing.

Phinn smiled, trying to be gracious, but Charity knew he could feel their pity, their empathy, and their collective heartbreak.

Once they made it through backstage, they wound their way through the cast tunnels to one of the side entrances to the stands. They sat down on the second row without any fuss or fanfare, and out of the main sight line.

Charity leaned in and asked, "Do you want me to take your coat?"

Phinn shook his head. "No. It's still cold in here."

But she knew. Removing his coat meant twisting his torso, something that still caused him pain. It meant drawing attention to himself. So he stayed bundled, hat and all, hiding in his dark clothes. She leaned her head against his shoulder, trying to love him without words.

When the show began, Charity could feel Phinn tense. She sensed him sit up straighter. He had watched the show before many times during Phillip's nights on, but this was different. She studied his profile, from the tension in his jaw to the slight tilt of his head. This was his show, and she knew he still felt it. The one thing he was right about—it was a part of him. It ran in his blood.

That night, Ema took the stage. For the first time, Phinn saw her in action. His eyes followed every tip of her hat and flick of her cane. He followed her steps, his body nearly humming with the desire to move with her. Charity held onto her husband, as though she needed to pin him to the seat lest he try to jump into the ring.

The show went on, with two acts worth of dancers and jugglers and fire breathing acrobats. And aerialists. It was spectacular, as it was meant to be. When the audience stood for the final applause, Phinn slowly stood with them. He clapped wholeheartedly, and Charity felt like the tide might finally have turned. Perhaps it was possible for Phinn to love his creation from afar. At least for a while. Maybe seeing his show alive and thriving would pull him from him perpetual sadness and give him a goal. Charity left the show feeling hopeful. And no one in the audience recognized him, or at least made a fuss.

Phinn was quiet all the way home. He had said very little throughout the evening, but Charity still felt in good spirits. She helped him to the door of their building and Phillip, who had been gracious enough to ride home with them, helped get him up the stairs to the flat. An hour later, they were settled in bed. The girls were tucked in, assured their father had had a successful evening. Charity sent them to sleep with smiles on their faces, thinking their life might be returning to something like normal. However, as they sat in bed, Charity noticed that Phinn still had said nothing. No comment on the show. Not even "goodnight." He lay against his pillows with his eyes closed.

She was exhausted, again. And her head hurt. But she drew up her strength and asked, "Phinn?"

He looked over at her.

"It was good, don't you think?" she asked.

Phinn nodded.

"And Ema...she does a good job? For now?"

"For now. Ha." Phinn scoffed.

"What does that mean?"

Phinn looked away. "We both know she's in for good."

Charity shook her head. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean that you can't…"

Phinn snapped back to look at her. "Just say it, Charity. She's damn good. And she's different and they love her. She's what I was three years ago. Different. Exciting. And I...I am the thing they have now lost interest in. Three years ago, Phillip was right. They came to see me. But that's over. That's how it goes. Out with the old."

"Phinn, you're not...old."

"It's not about age! It's about...over. I tried to reinvent myself and ended up making myself irrelevant. And everyone is right. I'm done."

Charity sat up on her knees and scooted closer to her husband. "You are  _not_  done! It may be different. The show, our life, it may be different. But  _different_  doesn't mean done!"

"You can't possibly understand this, Charity!" he exploded. "My father  _died_  at forty years old. Forty! And with nothing to show for it! He worked himself to death and left nothing behind! I have been determined to be more than that since the the day he took his last breath! I have so much more to do, and I can't do it from this apartment or from a wheelchair!"

There was a stony silence.

Phinn took a heavy breath. "I don't want to be...forgotten."

Charity sighed. She understood. She really always had. Phinn wanted significance. He'd spent his childhood feeling nothing but insignificance. That kind of upbringing combined with his wildly imaginative personality could only spawn a person who wanted to make their mark on the world. But she was growing weary of trying to convince him that he'd already done so. She thought, after the fire, that he felt he'd made his mark. She thought he'd found temperance. But now, her husband was stuck in a trough of despair, spinning his wheels as they rehashed the same arguments over and over. And Charity didn't know how to help anymore. She was out of different ways to say the same things.

"Phinn." She reached out to touch him and he pulled away. "Please...let's give this more time. Even Dr. Warshaw says it could be a year before you've completely healed from this. Don't decide your future before you have all the answers. Before you've given it enough time."

He snapped back, "In a year, they won't remember my name."

Charity felt a spark of anger. "And that's all that matters? That they remember your name?"

He didn't answer.

Sliding from the bed, Charity crossed to the wardrobe. Shedding her nightclothes, she pulled on a winter dress in dark green and quickly wrapped her hair up in a large hairpin. Pulling on stockings and shoes, she checked herself in the mirror.

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk. I need some air."

"Charity, it's…"

She didn't stay to hear the rest of his sentence. Slamming out of the bedroom and then the apartment, she was still wrapping her black cloak around her shoulders as she stormed down the street. Her thoughts whirled furiously. Charity knew she should have patience. And compassion. She understood her husband was struggling, that the doctor thought his head injury might affect his mood, but she felt like a horse forced to work the same circuit over and over again. She was pulling Phinn in an endless circle that led nowhere for both of them, and she had no idea how to break the chains. She was out of words.

So she walked.

Without realizing it, she walked all the way back to the circus. At this hour, she expected solitude, but she was surprised to find Anne and Ema still in the tent. Their laughter greeted her when she entered. Anne was trying to show Ema how to invert into the lyra, and Ema was clearly not taking to it.

Dropping to the ground, Ema said, "I can dance. I'm a showman. But I'm too tall and too heavy for this."

Charity had to admit, she was right. Ema was at least six inches taller than Anne.

"You're not…" Anne started to argue.

Ema waived her off. "I've got curves. It's fine. I do what I do. You do this. That's how the world goes."

Charity smiled. Ema could occasionally be wise beyond her years. When she wasn't being brash and impulsive.

Anne turned when she saw Charity crossing to the center ring. "Hey? I thought you were long gone."

"I was. And then...I needed some space."

Anne and Ema looked at her with compassion.

From the stage entrance, Phillip called for Anne.

"That's my cue girls. Paperwork is done and the husband calls." Anne winked at them before heading toward Phillip and home for the night.

Ema crossed to the first row of seats and sat down. Charity joined her.

"So are you runnin' from your husband tonight?" Ema asked.

Charity shook her head. "Not running. We just...needed some space."

Ema nodded. "I get it. I mean...I don't. I've never been through anything like what you're going' through, but...I think I get it. For him, it's hard. Seeing me perform. It has to be hard."

Charity nodded in return. "Phinn has never done well with letting other people lead."

Ema looked troubled. "He doesn't think I'm  _trying_  to replace him, does he? I mean, I would've auditioned whether this all happened or not. I would've been twice as terrified, if it had been for him and not Phillip. But I would've done it. I know I sometimes...demand what I want. But I'm not trying to replace him. Really."

Charity was touched. And it was reassuring to hear Ema say that out loud, since she could be hard to read.

"Barnum's incredible. What he has created. How he thinks," Ema went on. "But so are you. Don't forget that, or let it get lost. You should perform, when you're ready. Don't stand in his shadow forever. Find your own light."

The warmth in Charity's chest spread further. She wasn't sure how Ema could know that sometimes, just sometimes, she felt like an accessory. Supporting Phinn was incredibly important to her. She was behind the circus as much as him. But it would be nice, someday, to shine in her own way.

"That's kind of you to say, Ema. And you're right. My girls are growing up. I'm more than just a wife and mother and I want to...make my own mark."

After a moment, Ema went on, "So...him coming tonight...it wasn't good?"

Charity struggled. "Yes and no. He loved being here. But he feels the pain of not being able to be part of it more than ever. I just can't seem to convince him that it takes time. I know it feels like it's been forever since August, but for his injuries, it really hasn't been that long. He can't give up. Not yet."

Ema nodded again, listening.

Charity went on, not realizing until this moment how much she needed to let these feelings out. "I just...I feel like he's so far away that I may never get him back. And I miss him. I miss the way we used to talk, all the plans, however crazy, that we used to hash out. I miss laughing. I miss having someone to talk to at night, in the dark. I miss his touch, being held. I miss being kissed, and I miss making love to the man that I..."

Ema was staring at her, eyes wide as though she had not expected such an honest answer.

"I'm sorry." Charity shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No!" Ema vehemently disagreed. "I know what you mean. For someone like me...there's a lot of loneliness. And not a lot of...touch."

A few months ago, Charity wouldn't have thought twice about the plight of someone like Ema. She might've thought it repulsive. Now, however, her heart was softened and it ached for her friend.

"Ema," she said softly, "someone will love you. You are beautiful and...wonderful. The world might not understand, but one person will. And she's out there."

Ema nodded, still holding Charity's gaze. Charity reached out took Ema's hand in reassurance.

After a minute, Ema said, "I should go. It's late."

Charity nodded and released her friend's hand. Ema stood and started to walk away. Charity rose from her seat. Before she could walk away, however, Ema turned back and closed the space between them. Her lips crashed into Charity's, and Charity didn't stop her. Ema kissed her like a lover who'd been gone too long and Charity melted into it. Then, just as quickly, Ema jerked back.

Charity touched her lips, met the other woman's eyes and whispered, "Ema…"

"I'm sorry! Oh god, I am so sorry!" Ema threw out, and then she ran from the room.

Charity stood there for a long time, her heart beating rapidly as she considered what had just happened. She remembered how angry and hurt she had been when she saw the newspaper depicting Phinn kissing Jenny two years ago. She hadn't understood how he could've let things become even a little ambiguous between him and the singer. Now, she understood. She loved Phinn with all her heart, but for a moment, she'd wanted Ema to kiss her. It was terrifying, and she questioned everything about herself. What did this make her, and was it wrong? Of course it was wrong to kiss someone else, but  _Ema_  had initiated it. Did that make it any  _less_  wrong? And Ema was a woman. At what point in her life had Charity  _ever_  been attracted to another woman? She couldn't say. She was so confused, and scared.

She dropped back onto the bench, put her head in her hands, and cried.


End file.
